LISA: The Faithful
by IronVow
Summary: Long before the White Flash incinerated every woman in Olathe and incited the collapse of civilization, and long before Brad ever tasted joy, he had grown disturbingly used to the taste of blood on his tongue. While he and his friends were far too young for the lessons they'd learned, they could never anticipate how much worse things would become. A "LISA: The Painful" prequel/AU.
1. Prologue, Brad I

**PROLOGUE**

* * *

The sun scowled upon the world with a burning fury, sizzling the outfielder's body from his place at the base. Blinking the sweat from his eyes, he cursed the summer for such discomfort. The white-hot rays of sun were fine, in theory, but the heat that cooked him alive could fuck off into the horizon and never come back. His taste buds ached for a cool, refreshing taste of rum, and the scratchy dryness in his throat only amplified his frustration.

Standing outside in the heat for long periods of time reminded him of his childhood summers and all the misery that came along with the death of spring. Winter, spring and fall belonged to his mother, whereas the intense summer sun was his father's entirely. It fit with his domineering personality: The whole world and all the people in it had to revolve around him, and anyone who failed to fall on their knees and massage his ass with their tongue was met with a swift punch and a blood-splattered face.

"My son will not be weak," his father had said once, before the divorce, back when he was an unavoidable cloud that suffocated everyone in the house. The outfielder spat at the ground. His father had been towering before him while spewing his bullshit, sneering as he ground his foot into his son's face. Never would he forget the feeling of dirt filling his nostrils, nor the throbbing, carnal fear that gripped him as he struggled to gaze upon his father, only to be blinded by the sun.

"No man in our family has ever come home, day after day, beaten to shit," his father told him, strengthening the pressure in his foot when his son thrashed beneath him. "If doing things your own way means rejecting everything we stand for and staining the family name, then you are no son of mine."

If he closed his eyes, he could remember the exact cadence with which those words were spoken. Everything, from subtle shifts in tone to the grating bite of anger, was etched into his mind for the rest of his life. His father was like the sun, a burning giant that overshadowed everything else and filled the corners of his mind until there was nothing else left. He couldn't remember what words he had choked out to appease his father, but he remembered the lightness he felt upon freedom.

His father looked at his dirt-stained son in disgust and stepped back to hawk a comet of saliva into the dirt. He pointed to the side of the house, where a baseball bat rested innocuously against the wall. "If you're not going to use the moves I taught you, you will use that bat. You will beat down the fuckers that keep sending you home beat to shit, or you won't come home at all."

He understood. When he walked past his father, baseball bat in hand, he could have sworn he saw a glimmer of approval in his eyes. For a fleeting moment, hope overshadowed hate.

Hours later, he came home with one less tooth and news of the promise he had beaten out of his tormentors. They had sworn through bloodied lips that they would leave him alone from now on. The ringleader had begged him to stop hitting them, but he'd swung two more hits into the boy's skull just to be sure.

Despite the limp in his step, he felt proud when he walked through the doors of his home.

His father didn't look up from his newspaper, but the words he spoke were precious.

"Good man."

"See, sweetie?" His mother said. Anxiety wrinkled her delicate features; she had long ago given up hope of protecting her son from his father's violent ways. "You can make your own way. You're swell with that bat, honey. Why don't you join the baseball team?"

The outfielder was torn from his memories when the batter struck the ball with a loud, metallic ring that echoed throughout the field. Just his luck: the ball arched in the air and zoomed straight towards him. He gulped in air and darted forwards, dashing towards the ball like a predator in hot pursuit.

He slid on the ground in a forceful yet graceful move; his legs throbbed with pain, and dirt clogged his mouth, but he snatched the ball and earned his team a point.

The stadium erupted in triumphant cheers. Every one of his team's fans cried his name in a chant.

Are you watching me now, ma? He wondered when he stood up. If only his dad were the one in the clouds, instead of on earth. Ma would have been so proud to see him succeed. She always pushed him towards sports and away from fighting.

His team clumped together like magnets, each person alight with energy. He was glowing with pride and enjoying himself so much that he nearly missed his name being called over all the whoops.

One of the assistants ran towards him frantically, waving a phone in the air. "Sir, your wife's on the line!"

"What's she want?" He asked gruffly. His wife was a respectful woman who knew her place; it was uncharacteristic of her to disturb him at work.

The assistant's face scrunched in worry. "Apparently she went into labor before the game," he said. "She wanted to call you to let you know your child was born."

"Oh, shit!" One of his teammates yelled. "What is this? Your second?"

"Yeah," he answered, breathless. He tried not to betray his excitement.

Another slapped him on the back. "The hell are you waiting for? Go tell your woman what to name your kid."

"That's one hell of a congratulations, huh?" Another laughed.

"You kidding me?" The guy next to him said. "Who wants to come home to a baby? You can't celebrate with a screaming kid on the way."

"Shut up, Fernandez," he said, knocking him on the head. "I'm fuckin' thrilled." He pressed the phone to his ear and heard his wife's tired pants. "Is it a boy or a girl?"

"It's a girl," she murmured, sounding exhausted yet happy. "How was your game, honey?"

"It went well," he said. Suddenly his throat was tight with emotion. "How is she?"

"She's perfect." He heard the smile in her voice and imagined her clearly: her long, black hair was probably spread across the pillows, and her sweet face must be red with exhaustion. Was she wearing her favorite blue sweater? He wondered if his son was there, too, squeezing his mother's hand in support and peering at his newborn sister.

One of the guys on his team ran towards the crowd, cupped his hands over his mouth, and shouted, "Marty just had a kid! It's a girl!"

The crowd's cheers doubled in size until it sounded like a deafening roar. One person in the front of the crowd yelled, "What's her name?"

Marty flushed with pride, but he couldn't think of a name. He wondered what his ma would say if she knew her second grandchild had just been born. She would be so proud. That was it!

"Lisa!" He yelled back. He would name his daughter in honor of his poor, dead mother. She may not have had the courage to defend him, but she tried her best to steer him in the right direction. He'd make sure his daughter was a stronger woman than her namesake.

A few members of the audience pierced the air with a thunderous chant. "Lisa! Lisa! Lisa!"

The yeller turned back towards his friend with a grin. "You hear that?" He asked. "Your baby girl's got one hell of a welcome."

Another one of Marty's teammates threw his arm around his shoulders. "Born on a day you won the game for us? Sounds like your daughter's got a lot of good luck."

Marty brightened at the idea. Lisa Armstrong would have a better childhood than he had, that's for sure.

He'd be one hell of a father.

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE**

* * *

"We need a volunteer to read the next paragraph."

Nearly every student craned their head away from the front of the class. Some examined their nails; other peered out of the windows to admire the dead grass and blistering landscape. Others doodled frantically, scribbling monsters they hoped could gobble up the teacher who threatened to call upon them. Only one student was brave enough to meet the teacher's piercing gaze. That single student raised her hand and smiled at the teacher, eager to be called upon.

Mr. Sands ignored that student. He wanted someone who didn't speak up very often. Someone who avoided eye contact at every opportunity. Someone with a lot of potential, but who for some reason lacked the courage to see it to fruition.

"Mr. Armstrong, would you please read the next paragraph?"

Brad instantly tensed up. Mr. Sands noticed that his face glistened with sweat; the young boy swallowed audibly and reached for his book. "Um..." He looked around frantically. The young boy next to him tried to whisper, but his voice reached the front of the room. "It's on page 27."

Brad nodded and began flipping through the pages.

"Mr. Armstrong, would you care you explain why you weren't reading along with us?"

Brad eyed the book in shame, humiliated. His brown eyes flickered towards his friend, who whispered, "It's the third paragraph, the one that starts with, 'For a second, perhaps two, he did not know where he was, was still in his sleep somewhere.'"

"Mr. Weeks, please don't help him. He needs to learn on his own."

Rick's pale blue eyes widened in embarrassment, and he looked down at the floor.

Brad began reading, but his voice was stilted and unnatural from lack of practice. "For...a..sec-ond, perhaps two, he—"

Mr. Sands rubbed his temples. "That's enough, Mr. Armstrong. I'd like for you to answer my question."

Brad finally looked upwards, giving the teacher an eerily blank expression. Mr. Sands wondered how a kid so young could have such a great poker face. It would be impressive, if it weren't creepy for such a chubby-faced kid to appear so devoid of emotion. "What question, sir?" He asked quietly.

"I asked why you weren't reading along, Brad," the teacher explained, drumming his nails on his desk. Nothing annoyed him more than slow students, and he could never tell if Brad was being slow from genuine stupidity or deliberate recalcitrance. Either way, he was determined to stamp out any disrespect in his classroom.

"I..." Brad looked around the room. He noticed the expectant faces boring into him. Chris Columbo snickered at him from the front row, leering at Brad over the top of his sunglasses as the deer at his feet nibbled at the edge of his desk. Brad noticed the snobby, frustrated expressions on some of the girls near him, as well as the eye roll from a boy to his left. His hands felt clammy and his throat was dry. "I was hoping that if I didn't read along, you wouldn't call on me."

Christ barked in laughter, and, as always, the class laughed along with him. They always followed his lead, even when nothing funny had happened. He didn't treat outsiders very well, as the fading bruises on Brad's abdomen proved.

The girl in the front who had raised her hands wasn't laughing, though. She watched Brad with wide eyes, full of sympathy. Anger bubbled in his stomach; he didn't want pity. He wasn't pathetic; he was just a slow reader who didn't like joining in. Every time he spoke up, he was made the butt of the joke. Of course he would do anything in his power to avoid the teacher's attention.

The teacher's eyes narrowed. "Mr. Armstrong, I do not appreciate your attitude," he said, trying to keep his tone even. His irritated expression reminded Brad of his father.

One of Chris's closest friends, Sergei, laughed at the movement. "Aww, look at Brad, flinching like a scaredy-cat."

"You gonna cry?" Tom, Chris's other friend, taunted.

"Check out his face!" Larry laughed. "He's so going to cry!"

The girl in the front spoke up through the loud noise. "Mr. Sands, may I please read the next paragraph?"

"No, Joan. You've already read three paragraphs today. Wait your turn," he scolded her.

"B-but, Mr. Sands!" She eyed Brad, noticing his shiny eyes and rigid posture. "I really want to read some more. I, um, enjoy it!"

"Stop kissing ass, Joan," Chris said, leaning back in his seat and regarding her with a smirk.

Tom and Larry made kissing noises at her, and Sergei snickered. "Ass-kissing lardass," he whispered.

"Mr. Sands, didn't you hear that?" Joan protested.

"You should have stayed quiet," Chris told her.

The girl's face reddened in anger. "Mister, can't you do something?"

"Can't you stay quiet?" The teacher demanded. A loud, "Ooooooh!" rippled through the classroom, and Chris's gang burst into raucous laughter. Joan's mouth dropped in shock, and she looked down in shame.

Mr. Sands held his face in his hands, frustrated at himself for losing his temper at one of his best students. Yes, she was overeager, but at least she wasn't as patience-trying as some of the others, like Brad and Tony (who, for some reason, insisted on being called Sticky).

"I'm sorry," he said. "I just let that one out."

Someone made a loud fart noise.

By this time, Brad noticed that the attention had shifted away from him, so he sat down and watched the clock like a prisoner awaiting execution. Beside him, Rick looked pale and nervous. "Hey, I'm sorry, Rick," he told his best friend.

"Oh, uh, it's okay, friend-o," Rick said, trying to muster up some fake cheer. "Hey, at least school's almost over, right? Maybe we can play ball?" His pale, blue eyes were wide with hope.

"I'm sorry, Rick," he said. "I, uh...I lost my ball." Truthfully, he hadn't lost his ball; his dad had thrown it against his head so harshly that Brad fell into the wall and knocked his head against the edge of a table. Brad had been so upset and disgusted that he ran into the woods after his father passed out from drinking and threw it into the trees so he wouldn't be reminded of that moment again. Now he couldn't find it. When Brad touched his hair, he could feel the faint echo of pain from the impact. There was no way he was telling Rick that, though.

Rick's face fell. "Aw, geez, Brad, how'd you lose the ball? You know my parents won't pay for another after what happened to the last one. How are we gonna play now?"

To avoid the question, Brad tapped the shoulder of the boy in front of him, who had been dozing throughout the debacle. "Hey, Sticky, wake up," he said.

Sticky yawned and turned around. "What's up, guys?"

"Do you have any balls?" Rick asked.

Sticky's lips twisted into a shit-eating grin. "I've got two of 'em, Rick. Why do you ask? You wanna see?"

"Oh my god!" Rick slapped his palm against his forehead. "Sticky, I didn't mean that and you know it!"

"Your ma was shy at first, too," Sticky smirked. "But she warmed up eventually. Like mother like son, eh?"

"Sticky, that's gross!" Rick protested.

"But really, Sticky, do you have a ball?" Brad interrupted.

The humor slipped off Sticky's face, and he leaned back in his chair, trying to play it cool. "Nah, man," he said. "You know my old man is allergic to fun. 'When I was your age, I played with rocks, and I liked it!' Yadda yadda."

"Maybe Cheeks will have a ball?" Rick asked hopefully. Cheeks was seated away from the three of them, directly behind a group of girls. He'd deliberately chosen that spot because he occasionally got a whiff of their shampoo or perfume.

"Psst! Cheeks!" Sticky hissed. Cheeks wasn't listening, instead eyeing the giggling girls with paralyzed rapture.

Sticky rolled his eyes and grabbed an eraser off Rick's desk. He ignored his friend's protests and tossed the eraser into the back of Cheeks' head. Finally, he turned around, eyeing them in confusion.

Do you, Sticky mouthed, have a ball?

Cheeks raised an eyebrow and put two hands up to his chest, mimicking breasts. Balls? he mouthed.

Yeah, balls, Sticky mouthed back at him. He leaned back and lifted his legs in the air, placing his hands near his crotch in a lewd reinterpretation of Cheeks's gesture.

"Why am I friends with you guys?" Rick groaned.

"'Cause we're fun to hang out with?" Brad joked. He was finally starting to relax a little. Nothing helped him calm down more than the reliable goofiness of Cheeks and Sticky.

Rick didn't want to give up so soon. "I really want to play after school," he said. "I don't want to go home so soon... hey, doesn't Chris have an extra ball in his locker?"

"Yeah, so?" Brad asked.

"Well...he never uses it! I'm sure he wouldn't mind us borrowing it." Rick's pale blue eyes sparkled as he gradually sold himself on the idea.

"I don't think we should do that," Brad said warily. He eyed Chris, who was standing at the front of the room, taunting the girl who had spoken up earlier. Brad didn't know her name, but now he was the one feeling sorry for her. It looked like Chris was giving her a rough time. Although Mr. Sands was standing right next to them, like a blind referee, he ignored all signs of foul play.

"Aw, come on, Brad!" Rick protested. "It'll be fun! And, hey, I'll grab it myself. I know his locker combination, anyway. There's gotta be some perks to having the bottom locker, right?"

Brad's face scrunched up in doubt. "I don't know, Rick," he said. "I wouldn't do it if I were you."

"But—what if I do, Brad? You'll still play with me, right?"

Brad sighed. It's not like he wanted to go home early, either. If they stayed far away from Chris and his friends' usual hangout, they should be safe. It was true that Chris had a lot of toys he brought to school, and that one red ball had long gone neglected in favor of newer toys his family bought for him. If it made Rick happy, it was worth the risk.

"Sure," he said finally.

"Aw, sweet!" The sight of his anxious friend smiling calmed Brad's nerves. "Thanks, man."

"Sure thing," Brad said, but he couldn't hide the strain in his smile.

Rick gave him a friendly nudge with his elbow. "Hey, what's the worst that could happen?"

* * *

"You little thief."

Rick doubled over as Chris buried his fist in his stomach. Sergei and Larry trapped him in from both sides, punching his arms until he staggered.

"Stop!" Brad ran forwards as Tom threw an uppercut into Rick's chin. Brad gripped the old, unused basketball in his arms. Chris and his gang must have seen him chasing it after Cheeks accidentally threw the ball off-court. Bile built in his throat as it always did when he sensed a fight about to go on.

He tried to remember his grandpa's words: "Every fight is a learning opportunity, so never be afraid to fight for what you think is right." It had been many years since he'd spoken to his grandpa, but he tried to honor his memory by practicing the Armstrong family style and defending his friends. He just wished it weren't so painful.

"Leave him alone!" Brad yelled. He noticed Sticky and Cheeks whimpering by the goal post, peppered in bruises.

"Shut up, Brad!" Chris yelled. "He stole our ball!" To prove his point, he punched Rick in the mouth with so much force that he collapsed onto the floor of the court and sobbed in pain.

Brad took a few deep breaths and held out the ball towards Chris. The two of them locked eyes. Sadism gleamed in the black pits before him.

Brad took a deep breath and looked down at his crying friend. Rick was far too soft; he had no experience taking a beating. If anyone stood a chance against them, it was Brad. "I stole it," he lied. "Rick didn't do anything."

The beady eyes widened in surprise. "What?" Chris spluttered. He looked around at his friends before glaring at Brad, his face heavy with hate.

"You little bitch!" He jumped forwards and launched a punch into Brad's face. Brad tried to avoid it, but he lost his balance and wound up feeling the impact against his cheek. Sergei and Tom threw a barrage of harsh strikes against his face. Suddenly, Brad's mind went blank and he forgot his grandpa's voice. When Larry jabbed him in the eye, he yelped in pain, and Chris launched his foot into Brad's diaphragm, emptying all the air in Brad's lungs and sending him falling to the ground besides Rick.

His eyes closed, and he struggled as the four boys attacked him with sharp and painful kicks all over his body. Finally, they stopped, but Brad couldn't find his breath no matter how hard he tried.

Chris looked down at him with pure disgust. His face was shiny with sweat, and he panted heavily, but the ball he never used was safe in his arms. He shook his head. "Idiots..." he grunted. Brad's eyes lowered onto the filthy pavement, and he tried to breathe evenly. He was faintly aware of blood trickling down his temple and the throbbing pain that blurred the world.

"Let's go, guys," Chris said. Brad tensed up, expecting an extra kick as a sign of dominance, but the boys marched off. Brad almost sighed in relief, but the pain sobered him up. He slowly found his feet and wobbled when he stood.

Rick was on all fours, looking up at him with wet, hopeless eyes. Brad was ashamed to see the crimson blood bruising his pale face; if only he had gotten there sooner, he could have saved his best friend the pain. When their faces met, Rick's lips quivered in shame, and his head fell so his voice bounced against the pavement. "Thanks, Brad," he croaked.

Cheeks and Sticky hugged their knees, shocked into silence.

Brad's hand clutched his bleeding temple. It hurt so badly that his vision went white if his fingers drifted to the point of impact. He swallowed hard and stumbled towards his friends.

"I'm sorry," Rick whispered. "You didn't have to cover for me."

Cheeks looked up at him with fear-stricken eyes. "I'm sorry, Brad."

Sticky was dead silent, and his eyes were as blank as a statue's. Brad knew from experience that it would take a while before Sticky could be coaxed into the waking world.

There would be no more playing today. As he walked onward, he felt the wind brush against his exposed stomach. Just looking down hurt, and fear overshadowed pain when he realized yet another shirt had been ravaged in a fight.

Dad — no, Marty — would not be happy.


	2. Joan I

Joan knew it was time to go home when she had to squint to see her homework.

She looked outside the library window and, sure enough, the September sun was slipping from its spot in the sky, shifting the atmosphere from a deep blue to a bright blood orange. Soon the sun would sink behind the horizon and the librarian would chase her out for closing time. If Joan weren't careful, she'd be subject to another lecture about going outside and making friends.

The last thing she wanted to do was alienate the librarian; he was one of the few adults who treated her with a measure of respect. The rudeness and condescension from adults was the worst part about being reborn with all her former memories intact: Mentally she was an adult, but the world treated her like a precocious little kid who knew nothing. Then the little kids around her tried her patience day after day. The feeling was mutual: her classmates regarded her as weird and hard to play with, and Joan couldn't blame them, since she saw them as immature children (which, to be fair, they were).

As a fellow adult, Mr. Sands was her intellectual equal, but he spoke to her with such a pompous air of superiority that it made her want to scream. Nobody ever listened to her. The only adults she got along with were the librarian and a handful of teachers who'd been charmed by her interest in science. But she wasn't learning for the sake of learning; she was studying the geology of Olathe, trying to understand how the White Flash ever happened. She was infuriated by her inability to do anything: Sure, Brad was young, and the Flash occurred when he was an adult, but if there was one thing her past life taught her, it was that time passed by quickly. All her knowledge of the future was a burden, made more painful by the fact that she couldn't confide in anyone, lest she be hauled away to a mental institution.

_ They wouldn't really lock up a child, right? _ She wondered as she clutched her backpack and aimlessly kicked a rock. _ Then again, considering how callous everyone here is, I wouldn't be surprised. _

_ Maybe I can change that? _

Once she took a few steps into the hot evening air, she heard wet whacks and shouts of pain coming from the basketball court. She ran towards the noise, determined to halt a fight if she found it, even though her child's body was far too weak to defend itself.

Chris Columbo and his gang swaggered towards her like a line of soldiers heading home from a one-sided massacre. Bile burned in the back of her throat. In her short time in Olathe, this group of boys had established themselves as the most despicable kids she'd ever met: There was Sergei, shirtless and swaggering with a nasty smirk; Tom, with poorly-dyed, piss-yellow hair that shot out of his skull like a pineapple; and the lackadaisical Larry, whose grotesque bowl cut hid his eyes and emphasized his shit-eating grin.

Finally, her eyes landed on Chris, or, more accurately, his mohawk. She always tried to avoid the eyesore, but it was like trying not to look at a car crash.

A bloody ball brushed against the sneering skull of Chris's T-shirt. Joan's lips parted in a question, but a sharp voice cut her off: "Sup, fatass?" Disgusted, Joan sidestepped the crew, only to stumble as a shoulder crashed into her arm. The boys turned around to flash her malicious grins — or even a stuck-out tongue, in the childish Larry's case — and they snickered as though they'd just told a hilarious joke.

_ Kids weren't this terrible back when I was in middle school, _ she thought, glaring at their receding backs. _ Then again, maybe I blocked out the memories… _

"I'm sorry, Brad," a quiet voice whispered. "You didn't have to stick up for me."

A few yards ahead, four battered figures slumped onto the basketball court's filthy asphalt. Two of the strangest kids in the class, Cheeks Gaywood and Tony "Sticky" Angoneli, leaned against the hoop's pole. Tony's neck was bent at an unnatural angle, exposing his botched buzzcut. The chubby, blond Cheeks clutched his knees to his chest with a thousand-yard stare. Before them, Rick was on his hands and knees, trembling.

Then Brad struggled to his feet, dripping blood and looking like he'd just been mauled.

The scene was so disturbing yet similar that Joan slapped a hand over her mouth to suppress a scream.

_ This was where it all began. _

Her throat was suddenly dry. Before anyone could see her, she slid behind a tree so no one could see her shaking.

With every breath that shuddered out of her lungs, she tried to calm down and focus on the facts. _ This is really happening. _ Gasp. _ This isn't a dream. _ Exhale. _ I'm actually a part of this. _ Shiver. _ I need to do something. _

A shuddering breath tumbled out of her lips, and Joan stood up on wobbly legs. By now, Brad had staggered a few yards off, and his remaining friends muttered among themselves.

"Sticky? Rick?" Cheeks was murmuring, sounding completely defeated. "Are you okay?"

"I wish he hadn't done that." Rick's voice was low and trembly, typical of his nervous temperament. Yet there was a hard edge to his little voice, a quiet anger he wasn't confident enough to fully express—or old enough to completely hide. "He should have butted out of it. I stole it. It was my fault."

Sticky's sigh was long and drawn-out. "He just wanted to protect you, Rick. You know your parents would flip if they saw you as busted up as Brad is."

"But I'm still bleeding! " Rick's voice cracked with emotion. "My mom's still gonna yell at me! And thanks to Brad stepping in, he's even more hurt than I am. There was no need for us both to get hurt."

"Easy, Rick." Sticky's voice was as placid as a still lake. "No need to get worked up. Let's just head to the nurse's office and go home."

Cheeks' voice was quiet and hesitant. "Um, shouldn't Brad go with us? He was busted up way worse than we were…"

Sticky and Rick shared an awkward look. "Um…" Rick murmured. "He doesn't go to the nurse's office."

"Huh? Why not?"

"The last time he went to the nurse's office, it was 'cause he had a black eye," Sticky explained. "The next day, he had two."

"I don't get it," Cheeks said.

Rick sighed. "It means that Brad doesn't want any help."

The chubby blond spoke up again, but Sticky cut him off. "That's enough for now, guys. Let's get movin'."

There was shuffling, and the thumping of feet across pavement, but Joan was frozen in place, her thoughts in a whirlwind. Her eyes were blank, trained on the grass, and she faintly registered the footsteps that grew louder and louder until they finally stopped.

Rick's arms were slung over each of his friends' shoulders; Cheeks stood on his other side, farthest away from Joan, while Sticky was close enough to look down at her with a withering scowl. "Did you enjoy the show?"

Shock shot through her system. "No!" She yelled, stress staining her voice, shaking her head violently.

But his accusatory eyes filled her with regret nonetheless—what if she could have intervened, stopped this from happening, proven that she could have changed the future?

His anger, combined with her shame, propelled Joan to bolt after Brad's figure in the distance. Faint cries of protest shot against her eardrums, but determination drove her forward.

Doubt slowed her footsteps the closer she came to Brad's bloodied back. He was tame enough in the few times she'd spoken to him, but he was always getting into fights, and Joan knew for certain that he was an unstable adult.

When she tapped his shoulder, he flinched like she burned him, whipping around with raised fists. At the sight of her chubby face and giant glasses, he sighed. "What do you want?"

The importance of this moment weighed heavily on Joan's shoulders. _ I must be here for a reason, _ she thought. _ Even if I can't stop the White Flash, I should at least prevent what comes next. _ "I want to help you—"

His eyes darkened. "I don't need your help."

With newfound boldness, Joan touched his shoulder to stop him from leaving. He stiffened, and Joan mentally kicked herself — _ Of course physical contact bothers him; how long has it been since someone touched him without wanting to hurt him? _— but she pushed her luck anyway. "I saw you help your friends. That was really brave." She kept her voice low and soft to seem nonthreatening. "I could get you an extra shirt, if you like."

A pained sound struggled in Brad's throat, and Joan's heart tightened in sympathy as she watched his eyes flicker in confusion. Finally, the little boy shook his head, averting his gaze. "Thanks, but I don't want to wear a girly shirt."

Normally, Joan would let it be—she didn't want to take any chances with the Joy addict who tore through Olathe, but it was so hard to think of the adult he would become when this little boy stood before her. He was too young and innocent to hide his fear.

Already she could see what was to come: a bottle crashing into a tiny skull, a boy's facade shattering into a tidal wave of tears. _ I won't let that happen, _she thought fiercely.

"I have normal shirts you can wear," she insisted, her squeaky voice rising with authority. "It's no trouble at all, really. I'll even help you clean up. It'll be quick, I promise. I have a shirt that looks just like yours. Your dad won't even be able to tell the difference!"

Brad's eyes widened at the mention of his father, but said nothing. Joan stood there in tense silence, sweating under the dying sun.

As if in deep thought, Brad looked down and sighed, his face looking far too somber for his young age.

Then he glanced at her with pursed lips, and gave a tentative nod. It wasn't a smile, but she would take it.

"Thanks, Brad!"

As they set off towards her house, she fought the urge to burst into a jig. So much of this new life felt like a fever dream, but now, for the very first time since she'd woken up in a baby's body with full memories of her past, Joan Chambers felt as though things would be all right.

Most of the small town was lovely this time of year. Bright green and full of flowers, it could have been enchanting to a more optimistic pair, yet Joan's enjoyment of the scenery was secondary. All she cared about was building this tentative friendship, while Brad was too focused on seeing clearly through his bloody vision to appreciate the flowers.

On the way, they passed a tall, strangely-dressed man. He wore a deep red suit, and long black hair flowed down his shoulders. With his immaculate outfit and elegant features, he was obviously a foreigner, yet something in the back of Joan's mind told her he was meant to be here.

"Um, hello." She gave him a curt nod of respect as they passed, but behind his sunglasses, beady black eyes flickered over the scenery.

"Ah, yes, Olathe...this will work well…"

_ Weirdo, _she thought disdainfully, yet doubt niggled at the back of her mind. Later on, she'd try to remember this guy, but for now, all of her focus was on helping her bleeding classmate.

After they passed, Joan's small white house with a navy trim came into view. "We're here!" The house keys clanked in her frustratingly tiny fingers.

"Nice garden," Brad muttered, looking at the four bug-eyed gnomes decorated throughout the flower patches. After resting on a pink carnation, a monarch butterfly took off into the sky before fluttering down on the yellow roses climbing around the property's white picket fence. Closer to the house, a red shovel leaned against the backyard gate, next to a BEWARE OF DOG sign that failed to convey how fat and harmless the family dachshund really was.

"Thanks," she said, eyeing her father's prized front yard. "After you!"

Once Brad ambled through the open door, he gawked at the living room while Joan slid the lock into place.

"Welcome to my house," Joan said with as much cheer as she could muster, trying to draw Brad out of his shell.

Brad didn't know what to say, so she led him down the hall filled with her dad's paintings of farm animals and scenery. Next to the answering machine stood a small statue of a chicken, complete with colorful paint and a big, cartoonish smile.

When they reached the kitchen, Brad gaped at the refrigerator.

"It's nice, huh?"

"It's so clean," he breathed.

Joan nodded, remembering the filthy house she'd never seen in person. They fell into silence as Joan rifled through the house in search of the first-aid kit. "Here, why don't you sit down while I grab a cloth for you?"

By the time Joan found what she needed, Brad looked completely lost. Her dachshund had waddled into the kitchen and jumped up on the stool legs of Brad's chair, begging for scraps.

"Sorry about this," Joan said, leaning towards Brad with a wet towel in her hands. When she pressed it against the torn flesh of his arm, Brad hissed. "I'm sorry, but we need to clean it before I can bandage it."

"No!" His voice was loud and firm. "I can't have bandages. If my dad sees—"

"What's his problem with bandages?" Incredulity leaked out of her voice. "How are you going to get better?"

"He thinks I'm weak," Brad whispered. "It'll make him mad."

"How can he blame you for getting beat up by a group of kids?" Joan asked. "Even a strong fighter couldn't hold his own against four people."

Brad shrugged, looking down at the whining dog, and Joan was unable to hold her tongue: "Is that why you don't go to the nurse's office?"

Anger flashed in his brown eyes, and he averted his gaze to the jumping dog. His cheeks burned red. A tense moment passed before Joan finally shoved the kit into his hands.

"I'm giving this to you, since you should still have ointment and bandages, no matter what your dad says. You need to take care of yourself so it doesn't get even worse. I mean, you could get an infection… I don't see why you should suffer for his reputation." Before Brad could argue, she shook her head. "Keep it. I'm gonna go grab a shirt while you clean up and put some ointment on."

"Um, but what about… what's his name?"

Joan chuckled. "Blimpy. Or Blimpy the Destroyer, as we call him."

"What does he destroy?"

"Furniture, for the most part. And garbage, if we don't put something heavy over the lid."

Brad eyed Blimpy with renewed interest as he cleaned up his injuries. Ointment and water went to the wounds on his face and arms, but on areas that would be hidden, such as his stomach, he added bandages no one would see.

As she walked up the stairs, which was always agonizingly long thanks to her tiny legs, Joan imagined her heart as a deflated balloon. Perhaps the key to feeling full was to pump air into the balloon by proving she was alive and this world was real. Acts like this, helping someone, going out of her way to create little changes for the better, inspired her to persevere.

_Who knows how much I can accomplish? _ Joan eyed the world map lying above her bed, in which the country of Olathe was bubbled in a bright red circle next to her drawings of mushroom clouds and question marks.

_ I could even save the world_. Red cotton felt soft and sweet beneath her fingers, although maybe it seemed so nice was because she was parting with it. Still, with a little pocket over the heart and a deep crimson hue, it looked like just the kind of shirt a carefree kid would wear.

_ But first, I need to see if I can save my friend. _With a resolute thump, the cabinet slid shut. A smudged mirror perched atop the dresser contained a bizarre reflection Joan still struggled to feel comfortable with. Thick, rusty hair hung down her cheeks in tight braids with wild strands of hair sticking out, framing a long face that was as white as a vampire. Wide eyes, as dark as ground-up espresso beans, were framed by black, thick-rimmed glasses that seemed to swallow her features. Despite her chubby cheeks and youthful looks, nervousness clawed at her features, giving her a permanent look of anxiety.

She still couldn't get used to this reflection. Every time, she expected to see her old face from her past life. Every time, she looked horrendously wrong.

Two tiny hands rubbed at her temples. _ Remember that there are those who have it worse than I do_, she thought_. One of them's downstairs. _

Every time Joan walked down the stairs, she hit a particular step that groaned like a man who'd been kicked in the head. At the sound, the refrigerator door slammed shut and Brad scampered back to the sink.

"I just wanted some water!" He defended himself, although Joan hadn't said a thing.

"You can eat or drink if you'd like."

"...Really?"

"Yeah. Help herself."

Suspiciously, Brad took some bread and cheese from the kitchen, chewing with hunched shoulders that made him look like a defensive animal. Joan leaned against the kitchen doorway, acting calm to make it crystal clear he'd done nothing wrong.

Eventually, he seemed to relax. Joan wound up helping him with a few spots he'd missed. There was a huge tear in the back of his shirt from where the boys had kicked him down earlier. This time, Brad didn't hiss in pain; he sat as still as a statue, except for the chewing and swallowing. As if he hadn't eaten anything all day, he inhaled the food he'd taken, leaving no crumbs for the puppy at his feet. A little head pat from Brad put an end to Blimpy's whining.

When they were finished, the soft red shirt flew into Brad's hands. "Here's your shirt, by the way."

He hesitated, holding it out before him. "I...don't have anything to give to you," he murmured.

"It's okay," she assured him. "It's a gift. I don't need anything back."

Although he looked doubtful, Brad nodded. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

He switched into his red shirt, holding the old, bloody rags in a dirty ball. "I should go now."

"You can just throw that away, you know." Joan reached for it, but he shook his head.

"I'll keep it as a back-up," he muttered.

Joan nodded. "All right, then. I'll walk you back."

"But—"

"Let's head out!" She insisted. "Blimpy needs a walk anyway."

Brad looked away, his features pained. "I don't think that would be for the best."

"We could talk some more. And it would make Blimpy so happy." She wouldn't budge.

By now, the strange man examining the town was long gone, but the sun was still high enough to shine over the white flowers speckled throughout the fields. Brad was still limping, though he didn't look as close to fainting as he did earlier, and all his wounds seemed cleaned up. His little hand pressed against his struck temple, but that pain should go away soon. The other hand held the first aid kit behind his back, as though he were afraid of being seen with it.

_ He's probably afraid of what Marty would do, _Joan thought, her stomach twisting at the thought.

The closer they got to the edge of town, the more Brad's face fell.

Far beyond the rest of the neighborhood stood a dilapidated house with peeling white paint and a tattered lawn filled with bottles. Brad's lips set into a hard line once they reached his decrepit home. He looked at her with a defensive expression, ready to say something.

"It was great hanging out with you today," Joan cut in, trying to sound as light-hearted as possible. "See you tomorrow?"

A flash of relief lit up his eyes. Brad gave her a curt nod before heading towards the house, his steps as slow as if he were walking through a tar pit. Without a backward glance, he stepped into the house, swallowed up by the darkness within.

Joan scampered up to the porch and pressed her ear against the door.

Distorted laughter from the TV vibrated against her eardrums, but she didn't hear the grotesque crash of a glass bottle against a child's temple.

Breathing a sigh of relief, she retreated to the edge of the property. Yet something tethered her feet to the ground. There was a great evil within, but she had no clue how to combat it. All she knew was that this house of horrors was where it all started, and she needed to find a way to save the Armstrong kids. Right now, though, all she could do was watch the property, eyes wide and heart racing.

Then the upstairs window swished open, and a round, boyish face peeked out.

Brad squinted at her, confused, but when she held up a hand to wave, he slowly waved back.

The faintest ghost of a smile played at his lips, and Joan grinned in response.

In the future, once they were closer friends, she would ask to see his sister. There was no way in hell she'd let Lisa suffer at Marty's hands.


	3. Brad II

Dad was disappearing again.

His garish shirt stank of days-old filth. Alcohol oozed from every pore. Lisa had made him angry again, with her endless crying in the night, and when Brad went to quiet her down, he found dad already in the room, shaking her so hard her head jerked back and forth.

"Dad, stop! You'll hurt her!"

"Get back to bed or I'll do a lot worse to you."

Lisa's little head slumped to the side. Brad knew she was too young for this treatment; he knew mom would have screamed against it and gotten slapped, but mom had been brave and now she was dead while Brad breathed, so he closed the door like a coward and retreated to his bed, where shame kept him awake.

Dad's heavy footsteps grew louder, and Brad trembled. His door creaked open, and Brad threw the covers over his head. _Don't come in. Don't come in, _he prayed, and when the door slid shut, he sighed in relief, hoping the next morning would be more peaceful.

He was wrong.

"Where's your sister?"

Brad flinched at the sound of dad's rough voice. He thought he had sneaked down the stairs undetected. "I-I think she's upstairs, sir."

"_W-well,_" dad mocked, "go fucking get her. You're taking care of her today."

It was Sunday, and Brad was supposed to go to Rick's house and play. He bristled in anger but breathed deeply instead. "Where are you going?"

Dad paused in his search for his shoes, turning a cold, empty stare towards his son. His eyes were invisible, devoured by his huge, black sunglasses, but Brad knew his beady eyes were angry. He could tell by the set of dad's shoulders, the stiffness of his jaw. "None of your fucking business." Which is what he always said before disappearing for days.

Dad jerked his arm upwards, pointing towards the ceiling. "Take care of it."

_It. _Dad always forgot Lisa's name when he went off on a bender. He always acted like more of an asshole than usual, smacking Brad around, calling Lisa names, cursing their mother for leaving.

There were so many things Brad wanted to say. _Fuck you, dad, _he thought._ I wish you were the one who died instead of mom. I hope you get what you deserve and get shot or stabbed so you finally shut up_. But dad would probably kill him for saying that, and then there would be nobody to protect Lisa. "Yes, sir."

After dad left, Lisa started crying. Brad went upstairs and nearly gagged at the smell. She'd soiled herself during the night; it must have been why she was crying. Now there was a huge mess in her crib and Brad had no idea what to do with her.

What did mom do?

She had a special way of removing Lisa's diapers, but Brad couldn't remember. He tugged on her diaper, too roughly because Lisa cried louder, before finally breaking it open. "I'm sorry," he whispered, trying to hold his breath at the smell. He ran to throw the diaper away and picked her up. The sheets were sticky and brown, but Lisa's mess was all over her little legs as well.

He decided to clean Lisa first, then go for the sheets. Mom always tried to take care of Lisa first.

There was nothing clean in her tiny room, so Brad went to the downstairs bathroom and ran some lukewarm water in the sink. Lisa struggled in his arms, and Brad prayed that her mess wouldn't stain his new shirt. Gently, he held Lisa under the water, which ran down her legs and privates to carry away some of the grossness.

_I'm probably doing something wrong,_ Brad thought. But Lisa seemed to like it: She giggled softly and moved her chubby hands to play with the running water. Even though he was mad that he had to take care of her, Brad couldn't help but smile. Lisa was so sweet when she wasn't crying, and her eyes were the same light blue color mom had. He always wished he'd taken after mom, instead of inheriting dad's beady, dark brown eyes. But maybe it was best that Lisa took after her, because now he could see traces of mom whenever he looked at her.

Thinking about mom snatched the smile away. Now that Lisa's mess was down in the pipes, Brad closed the drain, ran warm water, and left Lisa to relax while he cleaned, though she slipped and cried when her head hit the side of the sink. "Sorry, Lisa," he said, and she seemed to understand, quieting down and looking at him curiously.

Brad went back to her room to strip the sheets off her bed. They reeked, but he bundled them up and went back to the bathroom, throwing the sheets into the bathtub. Lisa's big eyes followed his movements: First he turned the faucet, then he moved the sheets under the water, and then he gagged and turned away as the brown mess started to run down the bath drain.

Lisa giggled at Brad's face, and he couldn't help but smile. He probably _did _look a little funny, scrambling around trying to clean after a baby. Once again, he turned around to continue rinsing the sheets.

Then he heard Lisa scream.

He found her submerged in the still-running sink, flailing under the water. Brad swore and jumped to turn off the sink faucet, plucking her up and crying in relief when she coughed and gasped in a breath of air. Lisa's bright eyes were full of fear, but she was breathing again, so Brad held her tightly and thanked God she was all right.

_I'm such a worthless shit kid, _he thought. How could he have been so stupid? Why didn't he turn the sink off to make sure she didn't drown? _I almost killed her._

"There, there," he murmured, petting her wet hair. "It's okay."

He patted her dry and wrapped her in a small towel, setting her down on the toilet seat as he wrung the sheets dry. Now they were stained brown, but it didn't smell as bad and the worst of it was gone, so he hung them over the shower bar and prayed for the best.

Lisa made strange little mumbling sounds when he searched her room for swaddling clothes. Since the bed was stripped of sheets and the floor was filthy, he carried her to his room instead, setting her down on his bed as he tried to wrap her in clean clothes.

It was a disaster.

He couldn't figure out how to properly fold her; it kept looking strange, not at all how mom used to do it. Finally, he wrapped the soft cloth from her shoulders to her feet, but her tiny head with its small tuft of black hair was exposed.

_God, I wish mom were here to help me, _he thought. But she was long-gone, and with her all of dad's smiles died.

Brad looked out the window. The sky was as clear and blue as a robin's egg. There wasn't a single cloud: just an endless, calming expanse of blue. It was a perfect day.

The sky was dark and damp the day of mom's funeral.

If Brad closes his eyes and thinks hard enough, he can recall the light pitter-patter of rain against the roof and the dread settling down upon his shoulders.

Dad was on his hands and knees, his torso slumped over the casket, his meaty hands swiping at his sopping face. He sobbed like an animal, his voice high-pitched and horrifying, blubbering about God and apologies and how he wished he'd treated her better.

Brad didn't know what to do. Lisa struggled in his arms, her big, blue eyes confused and distressed. She reached for him, but Brad wasn't in the mood to play. He couldn't move.

Brad felt like he was outside of his body, watching the scene from the window: his father, on his knees and banging the casket, and himself, standing a few feet behind, holding Lisa but staring blankly ahead.

All in an empty room.

_How is it that no one else came? _

A sad gurgle spilled from Lisa's lips when he brushed his knuckle against her chubby cheeks.

She was too innocent to know what she'd done, how mom had gone crazy after her birth. Mom was a completely different person, quiet and miserable, all because Lisa had taken the happiness away. "Sometimes, when babies are born, their mothers go a little crazy because of their hormones," grandpa had explained, earlier in the day, before dad punched him in the face, chased him out of the church and screamed that he'd never see his grandkids again.

Brad didn't understand it, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't feel a lick of anger towards Lisa. She was just a baby.

But he couldn't feel sad, either.

When he came home from school to find mom writhing on the bathroom floor, face slick with sweat and contorted in pain, terror paralyzed him. Dad wasn't paralyzed, though: He went insane.

It was the first time dad had ever been afraid, and it was the first time dad had ever hit him.

"Get the fuck out of the way!" Dad roared, loud enough to make Brad freeze. When he didn't move, dad pushed him away so hard he fell and hit his head.

Even as pain shot up his spine, Brad didn't blame his dad. He was only trying to get to mom, after all.

"Clean up this mess," dad snapped, scooping mom up and running towards the door. She wasn't moving. It was like all the air had slipped out of her, and she was as empty as a deflated balloon.

"Okay, dad."

"And look after your sister!" Marty yelled from the front door.

"Okay, dad."

Their ancient car groaned to life, and mom's body hit the dashboard when dad slammed the pedal and the car zoomed out of the driveway and down the road. A thick trail of smoke burst from the exhaust pipe and chased them down the horizon, before the car faded from Brad's sight.

Then it was just him and his screaming sister upstairs.

He wandered around the house, picked up the pill bottle and tidied things up as best he could with an absent mind. Lisa cried against his chest as he peered out his bedroom window, praying for mom to come home.

They waited for hours, until dad returned — but soon Brad realized that it wasn't really his dad, but a monster wearing his face. When they went home after the funeral, Brad did something that made dad grab his hair and throw him to the ground. Dad punched him until he blacked out, and when he woke up in bed, every inch of his body throbbed in pain.

Still he couldn't believe it. _It must be a dream_, he thought, aching so badly he couldn't clasp his hands in prayer. Instead, he thought very hard, hoping God could hear him. _God, please bring my mom back. Make her come home and make dad come home too. Please, make it all a dream. Please make me wake up next morning to see mom here and dad happy. _

He prayed every night, until Marty beat the faith out of him.


	4. Brad III

The next morning, dad still wasn't home, and Rick wouldn't meet his eyes.

Brad had been late for school after struggling to change Lisa's diaper, feeding her from the bottle, and giving her a quick kiss and an apology before running out the door. Her curious little eyes followed him out of the room, but she didn't make a sound.

Now, sitting in class, Brad couldn't focus over the sickening suspicion that Lisa may be getting used to this. It wasn't normal for a baby to be alone all day, and unless dad came home from his bender—likely drunk out of his mind and in no place to care for her—then Lisa was probably going to go hungry and wet herself. Then she'd be in her own disgusting mess, starving and filthy and helpless, sobbing all day long for her big brother.

It was nerve-wracking and terrible to think about, and now, on top of Lisa, Brad had to worry about Rick as well.

Words about literature and critical analysis droned like thrashing waves in his ear. Instead of listening to the lecture, Brad found himself gazing at his best friend, who scribbled down notes in his neat, blue notebook.

"Mr. Weeks!"

The teacher's voice was so sharp that even sleepy Sticky, who always slumped in his seat ahead of Brad, jerked to attention.

Rick's head whipped up like a prairie dog spotting a wolf. "Um, yes, sir?" He stammered. Rows of children turned to face him, their eyes hungry for the teacher's pet to be put in his place.

"Are you paying attention?" The tall teacher eyed Rick suspiciously. Normally Rick's eyes were trained on Mr. Sands throughout all his endless speeches about meaningless stuff, but this was the first time his head was down, and now, he was paying for it. _Is it because he didn't want to risk meeting my eye? _Brad wondered. _What did I do to make him so mad?_

Rick cleared his throat and twitched his lips in a ghost of a smile. "Yes, sir. I just wanted to... make sure I remembered what you were saying."

Now Mr. Sands tilted his head and put a hand on his hip. "And why did you want to remember the story of how I came to love literature?"

Brad stifled a scoff. _That's_ what he was ranting about for so long? How was that relevant to the book they were reading at all? He was probably just wasting their time so he could enjoy the sound of his own voice.

He and the rest of the staff had been on edge all week, ever since the new science teacher arrived, a tall, stylish, and arrogant man who intimidated the adults and impressed the kids. Even Joan stammered in his presence. Maybe Mr. Sands was feeling insecure about the new teacher who was far more popular with his students; maybe he was taking out that frustration on the kids. His choice to mistreat _Rick_, of all people, got Brad's blood boiling.

Rick swallowed, a deer in headlights. "I... thought it might be on the test?"

The teacher smirked. "You thought it might be on the test. Okay. And when have my personal musings ever been on any reading comprehension test, Mr. Weeks?"

"Uhh..." Rick's hands covered the pages in his journal, and it occurred to Brad that maybe he hadn't been note-taking at all. From the bits of paper not covered by Rick's fingers, it looked like he'd been drawing rather than writing. "It... seemed... important?" His voice broke on the last word.

Sensing weakness, Mr. Sands stepped forward—only to be stopped by a loud, "A-hem."

From the front row, Joan sat with her raised arm as stiff as a soldier's salute. "Sir, I think Rick has a point," she said, her chubby face the picture of determination. "Your speech about finding your love of literature in the jungle of degree options correlates to the story of the protagonist finding his way through the forest. Both of you went through the hero's journey in order to find your elixir. For him, it was freedom; for you, it was passion."

Now the heads of the classroom swung from Rick to Joan. Now their faces switched from anticipatory bloodlust to shared bewilderment.

A dropped jaw was Mr. Sands' first response, before he finally seemed to reel his brain back from outer space and spluttered, "It's correlates _with_, not correlates _to_." He stumbled backwards, gave her a suspicious look, and shook his head. Brad could have sworn he muttered, _"These damn kids," _before returning to his arrogant lecture, subjecting them again to some personal story that wouldn't help them on the next test.

Brad only understood one out of every ten words Joan had said, but he was glad it got Rick out of the hot seat. He glanced back at the paper, finding that Rick had resumed scribbling angry circles all over the lines of his notebook. Pen scraped into the pages, creating harsh and thick marks, with no rhyme or reason. Rick looked angry now, his face pale and his eyes bulging.

It was unnerving; Rick never got like this. Brad watched him until he realized Sticky was whispering something. "...I can't believe it," he was saying.

Brad leaned forward in his seat. "What did you say?"

Sticky glanced over his shoulder. "I'm saying, I can't believe that girl. Who talks like that? Who is she trying to impress? I wish she would just _shut up!_"

The disgust in his voice took Brad by surprise. "Who are you talking about?"

"Joan!" Sticky said the name like it was a curse.

"She's not so bad," Brad whispered back.

Sticky gaped at him as though he were an alien. Then he quickly turned back around without a word. _What did I do now? _Brad thought. _Why are my friends acting so weird? _He glanced over at Cheeks. Luckily, he looked normal, not ripping his notebook apart with angry circles or seething at another student. Good old reliable Cheeks. You never had to guess with him.

A ball of paper tumbled onto Brad's desk. Brad unrolled it to see a message written in Sticky's signature chicken scratch. "_She is that bad,_" it wrote, the dark underline thick with emphasis. "_Yesterday after school she watched us getting beat up. Like it was a show for her."_

Brad looked at the teacher, careful to check that he wasn't being watched as he opened his pen cap and wrote a quick note back. When Mr. Sands turned his back to write something on the board, he threw the wadded-up response over Sticky's shoulder: "_She's okay. She gave me a new shirt. And her dog is cool." _

Sticky turned around, looking closely at Brad's new shirt. His brow furrowed in displeasure before finally his face relaxed into its usual blankness. "Okay."

At that moment, Mr. Sands pointed at Brad. "Mr. Armstrong, if you and Mr. Weeks are going to keep talking, you can stand out in the hallway."

Rick gasped. "I wasn't even talking to him!" He yelled. "It was Sticky!"

"I don't want to hear any excuses!" The teacher snapped back, incensed by Rick's angry tone. "Go stand out in the hallway! Both of you."

Brad stood up, but Rick stayed in his seat, as silent and hard as a stone. His pale blue eyes were wide with anger, and when he spoke, his voice trembled. "I didn't do anything," he repeated. "It was Sticky talking to Brad, not me! I'm just minding my own business. Why are you bothering me so much?"

Close to the front of the room, Columbo and his cronies cackled in glee. Rick, always so deferential and tightly-wound, was finally bursting at the seams and snapping back. To them, this was live entertainment. They didn't care about his feelings at all.

It was no use. Red with anger, Mr. Sands pointed to the front door. "I said get out."

Brad didn't need to be told twice. He hurried up the aisle to the front door, ignoring the snickers and murmurs that rippled through the room. From the hallway, he heard Rick's voice saying something loud before the door swung open again and his friend stomped out, indignant.

Unsure of what to say, Brad stood there, glancing at Rick, whose red, wet eyes blinked rapidly. "Rick—"

"Don't talk to me."

A few minutes passed, and the teacher's voice carried through the door, but his words were unclear. Now that Brad was away, he wished he could parse the meaning, since then he at least wouldn't be stuck with a friend he couldn't talk to.

Eventually Rick started sniffling. He turned his head away from Brad and took a few steps away, leaning against the dark blue lockers that lined the indoor hallway.

Beneath Brad's shoes the ground was splotched with dirt. The janitor, Sticky's dad, would have to take extra time mopping the floors today. Sticky always liked it when his dad had extra work. "It means he spends less time at home and has less energy to give me a wallop," Sticky had said, expressionless except for a small smile that didn't reach his beady eyes.

At the top of the classroom door, there was a large window. Brad could see some of the room standing normally, but upon his tip toes, most of the room became clear. It seemed they had finally resumed reading the book. Suddenly he was relieved to have been banished from the room, even though it was ridiculous that Sticky somehow avoided punishment and instead Rick had been sent outside, on the verge of tears and angry at Brad for a reason he wouldn't explain.

Columbo was reading aloud now, gesturing dramatically with his hands to bring the characters to life. Brad could see scuff marks on his knuckles from the beatdown. All over a stupid ball he never played with. The damned prick.

Looking at the bully, who seemed immune to justice, made Brad angry, so he turned away and walked closer to Rick. The white wall he leaned against was speckled with dirt, but he didn't mind. Maybe if he dirtied his shirt, his dad wouldn't notice how clean and new it was. There was nothing Marty hated like a handout. Even though he refused to buy Brad new clothes, his pride would rather have his son shirtless than wearing a hand-me-down from another family. When grandpa sent them Christmas gifts, Marty threw them in the garbage and smacked Brad if he tried to salvage them.

_I miss Grandpa,_ Brad thought, remembering the calm, smiling man who taught him self-defense. Back when Brad was young and his family was happy, Grandpa would often take him to the family dojo, a large, sprawling room with huge mirrors, punching bags, and big, muscular men to whom fighting was an art style. It was a magical place: Grandpa would teach him how to punch, kick, and defend himself, smiling proudly the whole time. "Great job," he said once, after Brad kicked the bag so hard it flew back. "The skills may have skipped my son's generation, but I'm glad I've got you to keep our style alive. Makes me proud seeing you go at it, just like I did when I was your age." Pride warmed Brad, from his head to his toes, and he threw himself into practice, honored that his hero gave such high praise.

Now, Grandpa never came around anymore, and his dojo had shut down and relocated to a town far, far away. Dad said he left so he could forget their faces, but Brad didn't believe him. Maybe he just wanted to get out of this terrible town. Maybe, when Brad got older, he could live with Grandpa in a much nicer place, where people cared more about keeping kids safe than having perfect lawns.

A clock hung on the ceiling across from the classroom door. Twenty minutes until class ended. Would Rick sniffle the whole time they were out here? And why was he so upset?

"Stop looking at me!"

Brad jumped at his friend's loud voice. Rick turned on him now, his eyes red and sopping tears, his white face contorted in rage.

"I wasn't looking at you."

"You're a liar! Yes, you were!" Rick yelled in Brad's face. "You always ruin everything!"

"No, I _don't!_" Brad yelled back.

A fist flew towards his face, but Rick was too sloppy, and Brad was too used to dodging blows. He stepped back, his mouth open in shock. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"What the hell is wrong with _you?_" Rick's voice broke with emotion. He couldn't be reasoned with, Brad saw it now; he just needed to vent his frustration on the closest target. "Why did you step in? You should have stayed away!"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You _know_ what I'm talking about!"

"Just tell me what's wrong!" Brad threw his hands into Rick's chest, shoving him out of range. Rick stumbled backwards, but when he caught his footing, he only looked angrier.

"You shouldn't have stepped in yesterday!" Rick yelled, his voice even louder now. Surely the class could overhear.

The door swung open, and a swarm of students gushed out, eager to watch the fight.

Rick barely seemed to notice. He jabbed his finger into Brad's face, accusatory. "You're always stepping in and trying to help people, but you just make things worse! Why do you do that?"

Brad didn't know what to say. Loud noises all around him drowned out his own heartbeat, drumming in his ears. Between the yelling kids and his friend's bizarre behavior, he didn't know what to do. "I don't know what's the matter with you!" It was true; he wished he could understand why Rick was acting this way. He wanted to help; he didn't want to fight. Friends weren't supposed to scream at each other like this.

Rick roared and surged forwards, but a blur jumped between them. A loud smack filled the air, and then a dead weight hit the floor.

Brad was untouched, but on the ground, a kid lay in a crumpled heap.

Now shock overwhelmed Rick's rage. "Oh my god," he gasped. The hand he had just used to throw a punch now clamped over his mouth. "I just hit a girl!"

Joan groaned and rubbed her face, which had an ugly purple swelling over her left eye. Her glasses hung askew, haphazardly swinging from one ear and nearly falling down her white, buttoned shirt. "When I said, 'Don't hit him,' I didn't mean, 'Hit me instead,'" she told Rick.

"I-I've never hit a girl before," he said. "My mom's gonna kill me."

Brad suddenly felt a rough force pulling his ear. "Ow!" He yelled as his body jerked forward like a puppet on a string.

Mr. Sands grabbed Rick's ear and hauled them away. "Come with us, Miss Chambers," he called to Joan. "You three are going to the principal's office right now."

All Brad could see was the dirty ground and glimpses of Rick's writhing body, but he heard the slap of Joan's brown loafers against the squeaky floor. His head burned where Mr. Sands dragged him by the ear in a vice-like grip.

The secretary's mouth dropped open when she saw Mr. Sands burst through the door with two unruly boys by the ear and a girl with a swollen eye. Before she could voice a question, the teacher said, "These three were involved in a fight. Please see to it that they speak to the principal."

The woman bobbed her head in silent assurance before picking up the phone to speak to her boss. Judging from her response, the principal seemed to be busy. "Well, what are you looking at?" She snapped at the kids. "Go to those seats and wait till he's ready to see you."

Mr. Sands left them with one last, suspicious look, the door snapping shut behind him. Brad, Rick and Joan settled into the uncomfortable wooden seats that filled the main office. The only sounds they heard were the distant clacks of keyboards, buzzing printers and the A.C.'s droning, as they were still too hesitant to speak to one another.

Joan sat between the two boys, and she rubbed her hand over her face, wincing in pain. "So, what were the two of you fighting about, anyway?"

Rick glared at her. "It's none of your business."

"Since you hit me, I think it _is_ my business," she said, and Rick looked away, embarrassed.

He didn't say anything for a long time, and Brad figured he would stay obstinate until the principal came. After Brad let out a deep sigh and settled his shoulders against the chair's hard, wooden back, Rick spoke quietly.

"He fought for me, and he shouldn't have."

Rick looked at him nervously. There wasn't an apology in his eyes, but it seemed he was finally starting to realize how badly he'd behaved earlier. "I wanted to help you," Brad said.

His friend took a deep breath and looked away to collect himself. "It didn't change anything," Rick said slowly. "My parents still got mad at me, and I still got beaten up by Chris and his friends. I had to watch you get hurt, too, all because of me—" When his voice broke, he cleared his throat and blinked fresh tears from his eyes. "I felt bad. Like it was all my fault."

Brad leaned forward, looking past Joan to meet his friend's watery gaze. "It wasn't your fault," he said. "It's on _them_. They're the reason we're all busted up. I don't blame you."

"But you _should_," Rick said. "You didn't have to cover for me. It only got you hurt."

It was hard for Brad to fully understand why Rick was so upset. "If you get hurt, I want to help you. We're friends," he said. "I'm not going to stand by and watch. I'm gonna step in, even if I might get hurt, too."

A long, pale hand swept under Rick's runny nose. He took in a deep, sniffling breath before wiping at his eyes with his other hand. "But what if I don't _want _you to step in?"

Still Brad didn't understand, but it seemed like he was starting to get through. "Then I'll probably step in anyway." Rick looked at him incredulously. "I mean, I'd rather help you out and have you mad at me than not do anything and be mad at myself."

Rick pursed his lips and took a moment to collect his thoughts. "I get it," he whispered. "Thank you, Brad."

Brad wished he were better at reading people, because he couldn't tell if Rick was okay, or if the wrong word might make him explode. "So, are we cool?"

Rick nodded. "Yeah, we're cool."

They smiled shyly, both happy to put the fight behind them, both happy to have their feelings understood. Then Joan cleared her throat and broke the spell. "You know, you haven't apologized to me yet." She narrowed her eyes at Rick, who looked away in guilt.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and Joan nodded.

"Why did you step in?" Brad asked her, and she shrugged.

"I was hoping I could help break up the fight." She sighed. "I guess I did, but not in the way I wanted. You punched surprisingly hard, Rick. Did Brad teach you the Armstrong style?"

The blue-eyed boy gawked at her in confusion, and Brad tensed. "How do you know about that?" He never spoke about his family's martial arts style. Dad was ashamed of it, got pissed whenever it was mentioned. Brad had always assumed it must have a bad reputation. If Joan knew about it, were other families gossiping behind his back?

"My parents told me," she said, quick and nervous. Her brown eyes, which looked large and bug-like behind her coke-bottle glasses, shifted to the side like she was afraid to look at him. "I think it's really cool. I wish I knew martial arts."

Rick perked up. "Your family has its own martial arts style?" He looked impressed, and Brad instantly relaxed, leaning back into the stiff armchair.

"Yeah," he said. "My grandpa was a blackbelt, and so was his dad before him. He taught me some moves before he moved away."

"Dude, that's so cool!" Rick said. His eyes seemed to sparkle with enthusiasm, but it could have just been the leftover tears catching the lights. "How have I never heard about this?"

Brad shrugged, embarrassed but pleased. It was good to have a sliver of the old, excitable Rick back.

"Can you teach us?" Joan asked. "I'd like to learn how to block a blow next time."

Brad wasn't sure. He looked at her, skeptical, but then Rick cut in: "I might feel better if I knew how to defend myself." He sounded so hopeful that Brad's resolve melted.

"I guess I could try," he said, and Joan and Rick's bruised faces burst into matching grins.

"That would be awesome!" Rick was beaming.

"Thanks, Brad," Joan said.

For the first time that day, Brad felt at ease. Even the principal's later lecture couldn't bring him down. He was even happy when the principal sent them home for the rest of the day: It meant he could check up on his sister to make sure she was okay.

Rick and Joan tagged along, chattering about the Armstrong style and blitzing him with questions, but it was enjoyable all the same. The sun was warm on his back as they walked through the woods towards his home. They didn't even say anything when they arrived at his house, as busted-down and broken-looking at it was, and for that Brad was grateful. Normally he was ashamed to bring people back to his home, and now he'd done it two times in a row.

The driveway was empty. Although she was alone in the house, Lisa seemed okay. She even smiled when she saw him. Brad's friends waited patiently outside as he changed her diaper and grabbed her bottle. Joan even gasped when he stepped out of the front door with Lisa.

She leapt forward and snatched Lisa from his arms. "She is so _adorable,_" Joan cried, gazing into the little face with unsettling excitement. "I love her!"

"You don't even know her," Brad joked, but a muscle in his jaw twitched.

Joan just shook her head, a long, red braid flopping over her shoulder. "Oh, but I do," she whispered.

"Huh?"

"Nothing." Her fleshy face widened as she smiled from ear to ear. "Why don't you guys practice while I hold her?"

"You don't want to practice with us?" Rick asked.

Joan shook her head cheerfully. "I'll just watch and learn from what you guys do." She rearranged the bundle in her arms, resting Lisa's head against her collarbone and gazing down at the baby like she was a treasure.

_Must be a girl thing, _Brad thought, frowning. It was rude for her to swipe Lisa like that, but maybe she just couldn't help herself. Weren't girls supposed to go crazy for puppies and babies? He couldn't fault her enthusiasm; maybe mom had been just as vehement about her love for Lisa. All he remembered was mom's misery, heavy and all-consuming, but there must have been some fondness in the beginning.

Brad led his friends into the woods behind his house and crouched into a defensive position. "Do what I'm doing, Rick," he said. "The first thing my grandpa taught me was how to defend myself."

Rick nodded and mirrored his pose, bringing his forearms up to cover his face. Joan stood nearby, saying nothing. Although she promised to watch and learn, she focused solely on the bundle in her arms. She gave Lisa a kiss on the forehead, and the baby giggled in pleasure.

It was a relief to know Lisa was being watched. Brad turned his attention to Rick and smiled. "Okay, now I'm going to show you some of my grandpa's signature moves," he said. "Watch carefully. It's hard to learn at first, but soon enough, you'll get the hang of it."


	5. Sticky I

Things were changing, and not for the better.

Behind Sticky's seat, Brad and Rick were laughing over some dumb, whispered joke. Sticky missed it, but apparently Joan had overheard, since her snickers slithered down his ear canals.

Sticky wished Joan had kept her seat at the front of the class, but she had convinced Mr. Sands to move her away from Columbo and his friends. Sure, he didn't have to hear them bickering anymore, but now that Joan sat next to him, he could hear her obnoxious voice better than ever.

Although Joan claimed not to have enjoyed their beatdown on the basketball court, Sticky couldn't shake his suspicion. Sure, she gave Brad a new shirt, but the way she talked made his skin crawl. It was unnatural. She spoke like an encyclopedia, constantly trying to one-up the teacher, and always having the perfect answer for anything he asked. She wasn't normal.

Somehow, no one else in their friend group could see it. Sure, the rest of the class seemed to wish she'd shut up, but Brad, Rick and Cheeks were somehow fine with her. They didn't seem to care that, in the few months since she'd started playing with them, people now mocked them more than ever. _As if we don't have a big enough target on our backs, _Sticky thought.

If it weren't for his friends' nonchalance, Sticky would have told her to scram a long time ago. Instead, he accepted the change and tried to work around it as best as he could. Dad taught him a long time ago that fortitude was the key to a good life. "Bad times are only temporary," he'd said once, a long time ago. Of all the unsolicited advice he'd given throughout the years, it was his only worthwhile lesson.

Before she ran away, mom had given him another good lesson. "Always stick to your guns," she'd said. "Trust your gut and stay confident."

If only Brad could absorb those words. The poor guy shoved his feelings down deep inside. Unless you questioned him with all the intensity of a lawyer during cross-examination, he would never explain his problems. It took him a whole six months to admit that his mom had died.

At the time, Sticky hadn't known what to say. He still didn't. When Brad's mother kicked the bucket, things were tense. How could he say, "I'm sorry for your loss," when he'd been wishing for years that his own mother were dead? There was no way he could explain how she marred the Angoneli name, how she gave dad endless fuel for angry rants that led to beatings.

Some things were just too hard to talk about, so they spoke in other ways: a special handshake, a funny gesture, or a friendly punch that left a bruise. It worked for them. In their friend group, certain things just went unsaid, and he wouldn't let the intruder change anything.

Joan was probably desperate for friends, but why, of all people, did she choose Brad? They had nothing in common. And why was he indulging her? What it because she gave him a shirt?

On second thought, that might be the reason. Come to think of it, he'd worn little else in the past three months. _Is that really the only shirt he has now? _Sticky wondered. Dad once told him Mr. Armstrong used to be a hotshot baseball player. "How far he's fallen," dad had sneered, smiling at nothing, his eyes far away. "I may clean toilets, but at least I _have_ a job."

As terrible as it was, Sticky was glad his situation was a little better than Brad's. He, at least, had four shirts. Sure, they were all hand-me-downs from the thrift shop, but at least he didn't have to rely on Joan to clothe him.

How pathetic that she resorted to bribery to find friends. That girl clung to every word Brad spoke like he was some sort of messiah. From the way she acted, you'd think the fate of the world rested in his hands.

The thought made Sticky laugh. Brad was nothing more than another dumb, backwater hick with a crummy future and a violent father. That's what Sticky liked about him: they had a lot in common. Dad beats you? Grit your teeth and bear it. Take your due, go to school early, play so hard you're numb when you get home, lather, rinse, repeat.

Sticky got used to it a long time ago. Brad still had a way to go — his dad only recently revealed his true colors — but he'd get there soon enough. Now he just had to go through those growing pains. Injustice was hard to get used to, but soon Brad would learn you can't fight your way through a brick wall. "You can't change the opposition; you can only change how you react to it," Sticky's mom said the night she left. "You're too much like glue, honey. Be like rubber instead. That way, everything your dad says will bounce off you and stick to him."

She'd kissed his forehead, tidied up his bed, and walked to his door, where the light from the hallway shone behind her shadowy silhouette. She shut the door and the darkness engulfed her. This was the last time Sticky saw her; now she was gone, and he barely recalled her face. Only that shadow-shape remained.

Suddenly a paper wad fell upon his desk. He found a message in Rick's handwriting: _Don't forget it's game night! _A cartoon knight waving a sword was scribbled in blue ink next to the eager words.

Ever since Rick's birthday, he invited everyone over once a week to play the fun but nerdy game he'd gotten as a gift. Sticky would never tell anyone they played it, but it was a fun time-waster, and today, Joan wouldn't join them since she had a meeting with the new science teacher.

Sticky twisted around in his seat and gave his friend a thumbs-up. He laughed at Rick's enthusiastic grin before turning back, watching the teacher's lecture with a satisfied smile on his face.

Game nights were always great. They would head over to Rick's place after tiring themselves out through tag, hide and seek or whatever other game that had them running through the woods. Then they'd crowd around the Weeks family table, which had plush pillows on the seats and plastic placemats with colorful farmland photos.

Sticky loved going to Rick's house. It was clean and picturesque, like a cover on one of those home design magazines. Actually, it was better, since the place always smelled of food, like burgers, lasagna, or whatever else Mr. or Mrs. Weeks felt like cooking that day. Delicious aromas hung around the halls, and Rick's parents were unfailingly kind. Mr. Weeks called him "sport" or "champ" depending on his mood, and while his cheesy jokes made Rick groan, Sticky appreciated the effort. They were patient and optimistic, and they never showed a lick of cruelty. At first, it unnerved him — he kept waiting for the other shoe to drop — but over time, he came to realize they were what a normal family looked like.

The more time around them, the better. Sticky appreciated having a place where he could be a normal kid, instead of a punching bag to take the day's troubles out on. Whenever he started getting angry at his mom for leaving, and his thoughts took him down the dark path of bitterness, he could tell himself, _At least Mrs. Weeks isn't like that._ She seemed to care about him. She even remembered his birthday back in January: Rick had come to school with a cupcake from the local bakery. Atop white frosting that was smothered in coconut shavings, the blue numbers "1" and "2" stood together to reflect his new age.

Sticky had been so touched he lost his cool and wrapped Rick in an awkward hug. "Thanks so much, man," he said.

Rick blushed, completely unused to the show of sentiment. "Uh, you're welcome, friend-o," he said. "But it's actually from my mom. She wanted me to give you a birthday gift."

"_Oooh,_ I see." Sticky playfully nudged his elbow into Rick's side. "Give your mom a kiss from me."

"Dude!" Rick yelled, his face fully red. "That's freaking gross!" Then he chased Sticky back into the classroom, where Cheeks saw the cupcake and immediately slapped his forehead.

"Aw, man, I totally forgot your birthday was today!" The blond sighed.

"Don't sweat it. You can make it up to me by giving me your pizza today."

Cheeks gasped. "You want me to give you my lunch on _Pizza Friday?_ The one thing I've been looking forward to all week?"

"Not your whole lunch; just the highlight," Sticky said. At his friend's doubtful look, he casually leaned back into his seat, feigning nonchalance. "But I guess, if pizza is more important to you than your best friend since kindergarten…"

Cheeks' resolve collapsed like a Jenga tower. "All right, fine — but at least give me a bite of your cupcake."

"Hell no." Sticky plucked out the decorative numbers and stuffed the whole thing into his mouth. Crumbs tumbled down his chin, but he closed his lips and loudly moaned in ecstasy.

Rick gagged and turned his head, but Cheeks burst out laughing. "You dickhead!"

Sticky tried to retaliate by calling Cheeks a "dickweed," but he couldn't get a word out between the bites of vanilla and coconut goodness. Instead, he let out another long cry of pleasure. Despite his dramatic moans as he polished off the cupcake, Cheeks still gave him an extra slice of pizza during lunch. _Now, that's true friendship,_ Sticky thought then, sitting in the middle of the cafeteria and feasting like a king.

He got a similar feeling when they all crowded around Rick's kitchen table for game night. He sat by Rick's left while Cheeks took the right seat, and Brad sat across from their host with a hesitant smile on his face. Seeing Brad happy made Sticky proud; it was rare for his stoic friend to crack a smile, let alone laugh, but game nights loosened him up, and Sticky loved to see it.

Everything was perfect until the phone rang.

Mrs. Weeks emerged from her bedroom. "Yes, hello?" She said, a manicured hand gripping the orange receiver. "Um, I'm sorry, I can't make out what you're saying—" She flinched as though a loud noise had startled her. "Oh gosh, now I can hear y—yes, he's here. Why? Wait, _really? _No, I'm not judging you—I'm just surprised—I mean, don't you think that's a lot of responsibility? No, as I said, I'm not judging. Okay, I'll tell him. You know, if you ever need help, we're more than happy to—_Oh my!_" She gasped at the receiver, which emitted the dead ring of a hang-up. Evidently, the interrupting caller hadn't cared for her help. "Why, I never!" She muttered, neatly returning the phone to its spot on the hanger.

The others hadn't listened in as Mrs. Weeks spoke; they were distracted by some joke Cheeks had told, but Sticky watched as she nervously paced towards them, a strange mixture of anxiety and guilt on her face.

She stepped beside Brad. When he saw the look on her face, the joy in his eyes withered. "Brad, your dad just called. He said he wants you to come home and take care of your sister?"

Brad looked down, slumping over like all the life had left his muscles. "Brad?" Mrs. Weeks touched his shoulder.

"Thanks for having me over, Rick." Brad pushed his chair back so he could stand. His face was unreadable. "Thanks for the dinner, Mrs. Weeks."

"Does this happen often?" She asked.

Brad paused for a moment. "I like knowing my sister is safe," he said slowly. Then he turned and quickly walked out the door.

Things were weird for a while after that. They got back to their game, trying not to talk about what just happened besides a quick: "That was odd," and "I wonder what's going on," but the strangeness hung over them for the next few minutes. Once their game finally got back to normal, Rick's parents interrupted to announce their departure.

"All right, little buddy, make sure your friends leave at 7!" Mr. Weeks said, looking snazzy in a powder blue suit with bulging shoulder pads. "Your mom and I are off for date night, and we don't want y'all throwing any parties!" He bellowed with laughter, and Rick meekly assured him that no funny business would go down. Sticky wasn't listening; he was wondering how Mrs. Weeks could look so happy-go-lucky and unbothered. How could she dismiss such a strange call? Wasn't she worried about Brad?

Despite this, Sticky smiled and waved, wishing them a good night. His friends went back to their game, their enjoyment diminished by the fact that they'd have to leave soon. Rick was a stickler for the rules; even if his parents weren't around, he would feel guilty for disobeying them. From experience Sticky knew he'd be politely but firmly asked to leave at 7 p.m. Nevertheless, Sticky had fun in the next half hour, feeling relaxed until the crashing front door nearly gave him a heart attack.

"Gee whiz!" Rick cried out, clutching his chest.

"Sounds like someone's knocking," Cheeks said.

"Or trying to break the door down," Sticky muttered.

The front door almost shook from the furious pounding outside. "I'll go get it," Sticky said.

"No!" Rick hissed. "It could be a robber who just saw my parents leave and thinks the house is easy pickings!"

Cheeks shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe your parents forgot something."

"Wouldn't they just let themselves in with their key, though?" Sticky asked.

"Maybe their _key_ is what they forgot!" Cheeks hit him with double finger guns.

"Oh, dang," Sticky said. "You're right."

Rick looked dubious. "They would never knock like _that_, though. They'd probably just use the doorbell."

Then a familiar voice cut through the noise. "Rick? Mr. or Mrs. Weeks?"

"Is that Brad?" Cheeks scurried to the front door and peered through the peephole. "Guys! It _is_ Brad! And he's got a toddler!"

"Let him in then." Sticky raised his voice so it would drown out Rick's protests. If Brad was back with his little sister, something serious had to have happened.

Sure enough, a terrified Brad burst into the living room with a coughing baby, whose sweaty face was covered in red spots. Brad was talking a mile a minute: "I came home, and dad was gone and Lisa was all alone in her crib, looking so sick, and I don't think dad even looked at her — how else could he just _leave?_ — and she wouldn't eat or drink at all, and I was so scared, I thought maybe your mom or dad would know what to do."

Rick grimaced. "I'm so sorry, man, but they just left."

Now the fear on Brad's face shifted to disbelief. "No."

"They just left to go to a movie," Rick said apologetically. His pale blue eyes flickered to the living room clock, which read 7:02.

"There has to be something we can do." Sticky said.

He looked at Cheeks. Of the group, Cheeks was the only one with prior experience caring for babies. His deeply religious parents took to heart the biblical advice to be fruitful and multiply; he was kid number three of a five-children household. While he'd never been left completely alone with a baby the way Brad now was, he had experience caring for his sisters when they were sick.

Now the short blond stepped forward and motioned for Lisa, whose coughs morphed into cries of protest when she moved to his arms. "Shh, it's okay." He lightly clicked his tongue and rearranged her body, so her chin rested against his shoulder. Lisa leaned into his neck, and the crying stopped. "How old is she?"

Brad thought for a moment. "Her birthday was last month," he said. It was March now.

"Okay." Cheeks' dark green eyes drifted upwards. "This could be chicken pox, but I'm not sure. The rash on her face doesn't look like chicken spots I've seen."

"That doesn't help at all," Brad said.

"Well, I'm not a doctor." With ruddy skin that was tinged pink even on the best of days, Cheeks looked like a tomato when he blushed. "But we could try to make her more comfortable at least." He winced when Lisa hacked a wet cough into his ear.

The boys looked at one another. "We can't give her a cough drop," Rick said. "She could choke."

"Yeah, no," Sticky said. "Maybe we could give her some food?"

"We don't have any baby food here!"

Cheeks turned to Brad. "Since she's 13 months old, she can eat solids, right?"

"Yes, but only stuff specially made for babies." Brad gave Cheeks the side eye. "Do you really think it's not something serious?"

"Yeah." At first Cheeks sounded confident, but he squirmed under Brad's intimidating stare. "But I'm not so sure," he added hastily. "Since Rick's parents are out, we should try to take care of her until they come back, don'tcha think?"

"Sure."

"By the way, I'm going to set her down now. She can walk, right?"

"No."

Cheeks' green eyes widened. "Really?"

His unhidden amazement made Brad look away. "She can crawl."

"She should be walking by now." While Rick went to the kitchen to look for food, Cheeks gently lowered Lisa to the plush, white carpet. Lisa whined, coughed, and crawled towards her brother.

Brad scooped her up and shot a defensive frown at Cheeks. "She'll learn to walk soon."

"Okay," Cheeks said. "I'm going to go look for something she can eat." He scurried away to join Rick in the kitchen, eager to leave Brad's strained presence.

Alone at last. Sticky took in his friend's face: it looked worn and tense. Wordlessly, Sticky led him to the couch, where he seemed to sink into the soft, cotton cushions. Lisa squirmed uncomfortably in his grasp, but she stilled when Sticky felt her forehead.

"Chicken pox or not, it's a fever." Brad grunted in agreement, probably too tired or stressed to reply. "I'm going to get her a cold cloth."

With that, Sticky wandered through the first floor in search of small towels. He briefly considered asking Rick, but then he heard Cheeks' loud cry of joy when he found a box of mashed potatoes.

"Hey, she'll be able to eat this at least!"

"Awesome," Rick said. "Let's get it ready on the stove then."

"Do you think we should chill it when we're done? It might be better for her throat then."

"How would we chill it?"

"I don't know. Put some ice cubes in it?"

Rick looked disgusted. "Ice cubes in mashed potatoes? That's going to ruin it!"

"Dude, it's a baby. We don't have to make her a five-star meal! It's not like she's a gourmet."

"It still sounds nasty to me."

Cheeks cleared his throat. "Maybe we can, like, dunk the pan in ice water when we're done?"

"Or we can just stick in the refrigerator for a few minutes."

"Oh, dang." Cheeks said. "You're right."

Sticky moved away from the clanging of pots and pans and walked towards the bathroom. The tall white hallways were stuffed with picture frames that held images of weddings, family vacations and Rick as a baby. One photo showed a worn Mrs. Weeks on a hospital bed, holding her red-faced newborn with her grinning husband crouching beside her, one arm behind the bed and the other wrapped protectively around his wife and child. They were glowing. Rick was set from the moment he came into the world.

Pushing the niggling jealousy from his mind, Sticky ambled to the bathroom, where he caught a quick glimpse of himself in the mirror. It wasn't pretty. The hair dad had shaved off months ago was growing back unevenly. It made his already cue ball-shaped skullcap looked wonky and bizarre. Only one patch of hair had gone untouched by dad's tantrum, and now those long tendrils shot up like TV antennas.

Sticky only found medicine in the mirror's cupboard. Under the sink, there were shampoos, creams and soaps that emitted a dizzying onslaught of flowery scents. He also found feathery toilet paper that was softer than anything his ass had ever felt before. For a moment, he considered swiping a roll; then he realized how pathetic that was and shut the cabinet.

He could hear his friend's voices clearly when he stepped back into the hall. "How long will it take to cook?" Rick was asking Cheeks.

"About 10 more minutes," Cheeks replied.

"Good! Wait, why are you putting that huge bowl of water in the freezer?"

"'Cause we need to chill the taters, but there's not enough room for the pan in the fridge, so we can just dunk it in this cold water later."

"Oh my God." Sticky couldn't see them from where he was standing, but he imagined Rick pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. "Cheeks, we can make room in the fridge by moving stuff around and taking it out."

"Oh." He paused. "I hadn't thought of that."

Sticky eventually found a little hand towel, and he sidled past his friends to douse it in cold water. Cheeks and Rick were still working on the mashed potatoes, now arguing over whether they should put herbs in it. Cheeks insisted that Lisa didn't need anything fancy, but Rick thought she deserved a sprinkling of basil for extra flavor.

The little girl moaned softly when Sticky held the cold towel over her forehead. Her tiny body shivered in Brad's arms, but her bright, turquoise eyes watched him carefully. Sticky had only seen Mrs. Armstrong a few times, back when Brad's family went to church, but he remembered her long, black hair and striking eyes. She had been a beauty, and Lisa would likely follow in her footsteps.

Brad was tired for the rest of the night, but Lisa seemed to perk up when Cheeks and Rick came to the room, offering her food. She took two bites of the mashed potatoes and a spoonful of water, and the boys had been proud of themselves for helping her — until she threw up. Then they decided to draw a bath for her while Brad cleaned her clothes and dried them with a hairdryer.

It was the first time Rick or Sticky had ever spent this much time around a little kid. Though they were grossed out by her throw up, they mostly enjoyed having her around, mainly because it was a new experience. Cheeks, who they looked to as the expert in this situation, took a step into the bath to make sure it wasn't too hot, and Rick found a pink solution that turned the water into a bubble bath. Despite her sickness, Lisa seemed to enjoy herself, splashing the water with her chubby arms and playing with the yellow duck Rick fished out of his cabinet. It wasn't enough to make Sticky wish he had a little sibling, but it was fun.

Eventually, sleep blew its siren call. Cheeks was the first to lie down on one of the couches when Rick told him he couldn't sleep over, but by then Brad was snoozing in Rick's room. Nobody wanted to wake him up, so they had to figure out what to do with Lisa. At the time, Rick was holding her, and she slept with her head cradled in the nook of his shoulder.

"Maybe we can put her on your bed?" Sticky asked, yawning.

"But she might get smothered by the pillows."

"Let's put them away, then," Sticky said, rearranging the pillows and sheets so she could sleep on them safely.

"Hey, I found a sleeping bag under the bed!" Cheeks started unrolling it without Rick's permission and was nestled inside of it by the time they'd carefully put Lisa down.

"They seriously need to leave," Rick whispered, but Sticky glanced down at the boy sitting on the floor, fast asleep.

"Do you want to be the one who wakes Brad?"

Rick pursed his lips and shook his head.

"Then I hope your parents have enough sleeping bags for us."

Luckily, Rick's parents were well-prepared. He and Sticky set down their sleeping bags near the bed, while Brad was sound asleep with his head leaning on the side of Rick's mattress. Lisa slept on her back with her chubby arms spread out. She looked comfortable, and if she had any problems in the night, they would all be nearby to help her.

_What a strange day,_ Sticky thought as he watched the glowing stars on Rick's ceiling. He never imagined he'd help take care of a baby with his friends, but there was a first time for everything. Later, he would learn that Lisa's ailment was a common sickness, nothing dire at all, but babies weren't on his mind as he started to fall asleep. Instead he basked in the warmth of the bodies around him, of the softness of his sleeping bag and the fun he'd had. He fell asleep with thoughts of brotherhood and a smile on his face.


	6. Joan II

Joan coped with pain by pretending it didn't exist, but the truth unsheathed itself when she slept.

She dreamed of the apocalypse, of choking against the white light of the flash that would drag her and every other woman to the netherworld.

When she woke up, she would forget her name. In those frightful moments when she transitioned from dreamland to the waking world, she forgot what God had done to her. She forgot that she was Joan and thought she was still her former self. She would cast wild eyes over her room, recognizing nothing, until finally her mind caught up with her jackrabbit heartbeat and led her back to sanity.

In those moments, she would pray. She'd ask God why He resurrected her, why He let her remember the life she'd been to desperate to escape. Was it a punishment?

Before her soul went by the name "Joan," she lived a life that was dominated by her God-fearing parents. They drilled countless lessons into her skull, chief among them the fact that faith leads to salvation.

They also said that suicide condemns its sinner's soul to eternal Hell.

In this past life, she wasn't sure if her faith was strong enough to save her. She believed in God, but she didn't want to live on His Earth any longer. She wanted either Heaven or oblivion, and she begged God not to send her to Hell for ending her life.

He must have listened.

After her leap of faith, God shepherded her soul into a newborn body with all the memories of her former life. Oddly enough, she also remembered things that had never happened. During her time in the afterlife, time was not a straight line but a winding spiral through which she could see past, present, and future.

What she saw of the future made her soul turn cold.

"It's a blessing to be reborn," the logical part of her brain said, "because this way you're on Earth instead of Hell." However, she couldn't understand why she'd been reborn with knowledge of Olathe's apocalyptic future.

When she woke up, sweat-drenched and terrified, she would pray under the dark morning sky. She'd ask why He didn't snatch her memories away, why she couldn't live normally, why she had to go through a second childhood with a mature adult mind from a former life. She would beg Him for a sign, for some divine guidance that could soothe her worries and give her meaning.

He never responded.

Joan's burden weighed heavily on her mind, so much so that she fell back on her past life's habits. Back when she went by a different name, she shoved her anguish deep down, ignoring her problems in favor of a cheerful façade that was maintained by distracting tasks and an unrelenting focus on her fractured family. Day after day, she dutifully scrubbed away cracks on the surface, too weak to chip away at the iceberg of trauma and pain deep below. Instead of breaking the wheel that had hurt her as a child, she became a pawn, passing on her pain and trauma until it was too late. Eventually, all her acting and dancing collapsed like a tree with weak roots, collapsed like her limp body as a necklace-rope wrung life from her aching flesh.

Instead of learning her lesson, Joan carried this fatal flaw into her next life. She pushed down the truth of who she was for years, pretending she was another normal child, until the evidence piled up so high that reality jerked her head out of the sand and forced her to face the light.

Her new parents taught her the word "Olathe" when she was three years old. "That's where we live," her father had said in his sweet, sing-song voice, pointing to a colorful map in one of the Chambers family's countless books. Joan sang it back to him in a garbled mispronunciation, flopping her unwieldy fingers over the land's borders.

At the time, something about the word was strangely familiar, but she didn't know why. There was no chance her awkward tongue could properly phrase the question in her mind, so she couldn't ask him if he had mentioned it before. Adjusting to a new, weak and tiny body was disorienting. Her gaze shifted to the kitchen window, through which she saw her mother chasing after a flock of chickens. The sight fascinated her toddler brain, and she waddled over to the backyard, pushing the trouble from her mind.

A few years later, Joan saw a fawn dashing across the park with a grinning boy on its back. Stylish sunglasses bounced over his nose as the fawn galloped through the playgrounds at a breakneck pace.

"Who is that?" Joan squeaked, disturbed yet intrigued.

Her mom pushed Joan on the swings and eyed the boy, who was dressed in all black. "I think that's the Columbo kid," she said.

Joan gasped, recognition flaring up in her mind. "I've heard that name before."

"Really?" Her mom asked. "Where?"

"I don't know," Joan said. She couldn't place it for the life of her, but niggling doubts pricked at her mind. Certainly, she would have remembered meeting such a ridiculous person, but Chris wasn't ringing any bells in that regard. Where could she have seen him?

"Honey, do you want to get off?" Mrs. Chambers misunderstood her daughter's sudden stillness. "You want to go say hi to your friend?"

"Umm…" Joan's pursed her lips and looked at the sky, unsure. It was her mother's concerned gaze that made her nod and say, "Sure, I guess."

The pebbles crunched beneath Joan's feet as she jumped off the swing set and ambled over to the strangest boy she had ever seen. "Hi there. I'm Joan!" She waved to the rapidly approaching rider.

His hand shot out for a high five. Instead of clapping Joan's outstretched hand, the boy smacked her face so hard she toppled to the ground, cracking her head on the playground's concrete borders.

"Get bent, nerd!" Chris Columbo shouted.

The pain was so intense it zapped away any thoughts about how she recognized him. All Joan could focus on were the jagged lightning bolts running through her nerves, none of which hurt as much as her pride. Bitch-slapped by a boy riding a fawn. That would take ages to live down.

It was a long time until Joan faced the reality of her situation. As she grew older, always with doubts and unexplainable memories playing in the back of her mind, she was able to overlook familiar places and strange characters through the sheer force of her own denial. She shoved away countless clues so she wouldn't have to face the truth.

But Lisa Armstrong could not be ignored.

Although Mr. and Mrs. Chambers weren't as religious as Joan's former parents, they went to church for special events. Every Christmas, the church would open its doors to the whole community. Vivid lights sparkled from the rafters and free foods filled the halls with mouth-watering smells.

On that starry night, they entered the local church with stars twinkling over their heads. Joan and her parents drank in the celebratory atmosphere: Mom and Dad chatted with other parents, while Joan clung to their legs, overwhelmed by the surrounding stimuli. The dark, wooden benches had been carried inside, and now the hall was open and stuffed to the brim with smiling people.

As Joan gazed over the sea of unfamiliar faces, a dark-haired family caught her eye. By all accounts, they seemed ordinary: A heavyset man in a classically ugly sweater shouted with laughter at something his son had said. The small, chubby boy who looked like a carbon copy of his dad beamed with bride when his mother patted his head. A newborn was swaddled in white blankets, gurgling at the noise.

The little boy touched his mother's arms. "Is Lisa trying to laugh, too?"

"Who knows? She might be too young to laugh." His mother wore a deep blue sweater with a smattering of white stars sewn in. "It's hard to tell what a baby wants to say. It must be frustrating, being so small and unable to speak properly. Don't you think?"

The boy took a moment to think it through. "I guess so. Is that why Lisa used to scream so loud before dad shook her?"

For a moment, the mother's eyes flashed in fury, and she shot a vengeful look towards her husband. Then her features quickly relaxed into a languid smile; the shift was so abrupt Joan wondered if she'd imagined the woman's anger.

"Maybe," she told her son in a careful tone.

"Lisa's screams weren't _ nothing _ compared to yours, son!" The father bellowed, drink reddening his cheeks and amplifying his tone. "When you were a baby, you shrieked and shouted so loud, I thought you were a goddamn _ demon— _"

"Shh! _ Marty! _" His wife hissed. "This is a place of worship!"

Lisa whined, struggling in her blankets. Sharp cries burst out of her throat, and the little boy caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. "Shh, it's okay, Lisa," he murmured. "We're just talking."

His mother's eyes brightened with pride when Lisa quieted. "Well done, honey," she cooed. "What a good job you did."

Marty rolled his eyes. "That's nothing," he snapped, and his son wilted. "Quit congratulating the kid for stupid shit. You're smothering him."

"That is the second time you've sworn in the Lord's sacred space." She shot him an icy glare.

"Whatever," Marty slurred, swatting at the air and mouthing at his empty cup. "I'm gonna go get some more of that eggnog."

"Please don't, honey."

He lumbered off, and his wife sighed.

"I'm sorry, mom," the boy said. He was the spitting image of his father: dark, heavyset and wide-faced, yet while Marty was loud and gruff, he was quiet and somber.

"You have nothing to apologize for, Brad." Her voice was resolute. "You're good and you're smart. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

Joan's attention was called back to her parents. She overheard her mother asking a friend who the noisy family was. As Joan's eyes roamed over the tired mother and her children, she heard the words: "Those are the Armstrongs."

The voice went on about Brad and Lisa and how much of a scandal it was when the newly graduated Marty Armstrong got a high schooler pregnant, but the words faded into static once reality sucker-punched her face.

"Holy shit."

Her parents gasped. Their mouths hung open like dying fish gasping for air.

After a few months, her father recollected himself. "Where did you learn a word like that?"

"I'm so sorry." Joan's cheeks sizzled. "I didn't mean to say that out loud."

They interrogated her with endless questions until her head hurt, and after that, her mother dragged her to the bathroom. Joan left the party with the taste of soap on her tongue, and her parents interpreted her silence as sulkiness. In reality, she was shell-shocked by the truth of her situation.

Not only had she been reincarnated, but she'd been born into a world that was doomed to devolve into apocalyptic depravity. _ How could this have happened? _ Joan thought. _ Is this real, or am I making it all up in my head? Am I insane? But if I am, why did I recognize them? And why are my memories so vivid? _

When Joan started sniffling, her father met her eyes through the rearview mirror and frowned. "That's what you get for being a bad girl."

Sniffles morphed into body-wracking sobs. Those words reminded her of her previous parents, who said suicide barred you from Heaven. Her former life came flooding back, in which she'd made mistake after mistake, each one more shameful and despicable than the last.

Was this divine punishment? Was she doomed to a life in hell, living in Olathe next to Marty, who would soon lose his sweet wife and succumb to corruption, torturing his children to the point of madness? How could she live knowing Lisa was being tortured in the house down the lane?

The thought turned her stomach. Acid burned in her nostrils as bile shot from her throat and splattered against the car's innards.

The car screeched to a halt. Her father watched in shock from the driver's seat while her mother leapt from the passenger's side. Mrs. Chambers threw open the backseat and pulled Joan into a tight hug. "Darling, it's okay! Yes, you swore, but it's not that big of a deal."

She didn't understand. How could she? Joan tried to speak, but it felt like a python constricted her throat. It was scary to be trapped inside this puny, powerless body that spasmed with primal sobs.

Mr. Chambers came out, too, and then they were all out of the car, hugging each other on the dirt road. "Please calm down, honey," he said. "I promise we'll never wash your mouth out with soap ever again. I didn't know it would bother you so much."

They held her for a long time, even though the winter winds brought goosebumps and blue lips. Their arms were sure and strong around her shaking frame. They only pulled away when Joan stopped sniffling.

"Thank you," Joan rasped, her voice ragged from the crying. "Thank you so much."

A 10-year-old was probably too old to cuddle up to her mom the whole ride home, but Joan couldn't care less. All she could think of was how lucky she was to have these loving parents when the kids next door had terrible odds.

_ They're good people, _ she thought. _ I don't deserve them. _

If only she could tell them what she'd just realized, but they could never understand. They might put her in a mental facility, or, if her predictions about the upcoming war came true, who knew what might happen? She already knew Yado would start creating joy mutants for the military. Maybe they rounded up people with strange skills to use. Maybe they'd find her and take her away, too.

It was safer to keep her mouth shut, but still, she couldn't stop thinking selfishly. _ I don't want mom to die in the White Flash, _ she thought. _ I don't want dad to lose us and suffer, alone, fighting in the wastelands. _

But that was far off. Joan didn't want Brad and Lisa to suffer at Marty's hands. She didn't want to lose that adorable little girl who crawled on the lush grass and played with her braids. She wanted Lisa to _ live _.

That night, Joan prayed for the first time in her life. "Please, God, give me the courage to change the future. Give me the strength to save Lisa and do what I can to stop the world from falling apart." Her squeaky, childish voice sounded ridiculous making these grand goals. Joan shivered in shame. "And please, God, give me the faith to never forget my goals, no matter what bad things happen. Amen."

Her new dad liked to quote an African proverb: While you pray, move your feet.

For months after that incident, Joan was so obsessed with her goals that she accomplished nothing. She had only two: Save Lisa and save Olathe. She knew, somehow, that the two were intertwined, though she couldn't explain how. She just knew that Lisa was the key to saving the world, to saving her parents, and — selfishly — to saving herself.

When she first saw Lisa, she was overwhelmed by excitement. When she held the little girl in her arms, and Lisa looked up with those big, beautiful, turquoise eyes, all Joan wanted to do was run far away.

But Brad would catch her, and then she'd never see Lisa again. She had to be careful about this, had to bide her time. Instead of following her instincts, she forced herself to sit still and play with the girl whenever Brad let her, which wasn't nearly as often as she would like. They still had to tiptoe around Marty's schedule, since he would never knowingly allow a stranger to spend time with his daughter. _ I wish I could spend more time with you, _ Joan thought.

Shame gnawed at her belly when she saw the bright smile on Lisa's face whenever she came by. _ I'm not helping her as much as I should _ . Then the internal argument would begin: _ You're doing what you can now. You're putting your cards in place ahead of time so that everything works out later. _

_ You're leaving her with a monster. _

But Lisa was still young, and despite Joan's teaching attempts, she still couldn't walk. _ There's no way Marty's hurting her in that way, _ Joan thought. _ She's too young. He wouldn't force himself on a baby who can't even walk. He must have developed those disgusting feelings later. _

She wasn't sure. _ How do you know? The type of man who would prey on his own child surely has no scruples. Maybe it's already started, and you've lost your chance. _

The thought kept her up at night.

Joan swallowed her terror and returned to Brad's house, though he would only take them over when his dad wasn't around. She befriended Brad's friends, hoping they might help her in the future. She played with Lisa, taught her words, and tried to help her walk. She loved Lisa a little more every time they met, but the love was like a knife to her heart: It was a painful reminder of her own endless shortcomings.

Despite her best efforts, nothing changed.

A few days Joan after first walked Brad home, she had called CPS and camped in the bushes outside until a car pulled up to the Armstrong house. After the men walked through the dilapidated doorway, she prayed they would punish Marty and save his kids. She nearly cried when they drove away empty-handed, and when Brad went to the school with fresh bruises the next day, she hadn't been able to hide her guilty tears; Marty blamed Brad for the call, and it was all her fault he'd gotten hurt. That night she had called CPS again, but this time nobody showed up to the house, and Brad showed up to school the next day and the one after that. Nothing had happened; he was still stuck with Marty.

The reminder of her failure rendered Joan worthless for the next few months. She'd done nothing else besides support Brad and spend time with his friends. _ If I were smarter, I'd have made a change already, _ she thought. Then: _ Stop it. Don't start Monday on a negative note. _

She rested her chin against the cool wood of her desk and gazed at the clock. 7:50 a.m. School would start soon, but with Cheeks, Rick and Sticky at the vending machines, she had no one to talk to. Time would pass slowly.

Joan was lost in her thoughts when Brad walked into the classroom.

She was surprised, firstly because he rarely showed up on time, and secondly because of his black eye and bruised limbs. She wasn't the only one watching the slow walk to his desk; others noticed the limp in his step and the wince when he sat down. One boy eyed the purple bruises on his arms and legs with morbid fascination, while a girl stared with sympathy in her eyes. Brad paid them no mind. He hung his head and kept quiet.

After a few moments of silent conflict, Joan whispered, "Are you okay?"

He slumped over so that his eyes were cast in shadow, saying nothing. Laughter came from the front door as their friends returned from their snack run, hands stuffed with an overly sweet breakfast straight from the machines. Cheeks was talking about vanilla wafers when Sticky put a hand out before him. The three stilled, sensing something was wrong with Brad.

Rick spoke first. "Hey, are you—"

"I'm fine," Brad said gruffly.

The boys left it at that, sliding into their seats. Joan figured she should follow their lead and wait until Brad shared his secret.

"That's not likely," Cheeks told her at recess, once Brad was out of earshot. "He won't tell us anything 'til he feels ready. That could take a long time. By then he might heal up and then talking would be pointless."

"Why doesn't Mr. Sands do something?" Joan wrung her hands. "Doesn't he have the — I don't know, the legal requirement to report it?"

Rick shot her an incredulous look. "You think he cares enough about any of us to make sure we're okay?"

"Well, he should care enough about his job to not do something that could get him fired," Joan said. "Teachers are supposed to report abuse, but Sands didn't even look at him this morning. He didn't even care. Any teacher could recognize the bruises as signs of abuse. But I've been watching all day, and no teacher has given him as much as a second glance!"

"Get used to it," Sticky cut in. He never spoke to her unless it was to condescend. He hung like a vulture around her conversations, swooping down whenever he had the opportunity to correct her. "People don't care in this town. We're on our own."

"Well, I don't believe that," Joan huffed. "I'm going to call CPS."

Sticky scowled. "You're going to call _ who? _"

"I'm going to call Child Protective Services," she said. "Then someone will come by and see that what Mr. Armstrong is doing is against the law, and—"

"It's not against the law," Sticky scoffed. "You know, _ most _parents discipline their kids. If you arrested every parent for that—"

"Well, obviously you've never heard of them!" Joan snapped. Maybe he had never heard of CPS, and maybe he thought there was no hope, but he was wrong, and she was impatient. "A parent isn't supposed to beat their kid to the point where they can barely walk anymore. There's a difference between discipline and child abuse."

Sticky was still glaring at her, but he looked a little doubtful. He was silent for a few moments. "You'd better tell Brad, then. Let him decide."

Now it was Joan's turn to scoff. "Why?"

"Because if you're wrong, he's the one who's gonna get in trouble, not you!" Sticky snapped. "What if CPS doesn't do a good job? What if they think Brad's dad was in the right? He's just gonna beat Brad even worse, and then it'll be all your fault!"

He spat the words with such venom that Joan couldn't stand to be around him anymore. She fled like a coward to the girl's bathroom, where she splashed water over her face. _ Calm down, _ she thought. _ Brad's bruises have never been this bad before. This time, the authorities can't write it off. There's no excuse Marty can give them to excuse why he hurt Brad so badly. Once I get home, I'm going to report this, and things will be better for Brad and Lisa. _

She thought of Sticky. Maybe he had a point. Maybe Brad was in danger, and Marty hadn't yet reached his tipping point. Her intervention could ruin everything, inciting Marty into a more violent beatdown than ever before.

Joan looked at her reflection, watched as her fat little hand slowly rose before slapping her cheek. A red handprint swelled over her pale face.

_ He's just a kid. He doesn't know anything, _ she thought. _ You're the adult. You know what the right thing to do is. Don't doubt yourself. _

She stayed in there for so long that the bell sounded like an explosion. Class had begun; she was late. Mr. Sands would have a field day with that one; he loved tearing her down and lording his superiority over the one student who always knew the answer.

If only she could tell him that she wasn't as intelligent as he thought. He feared her potential, thought she was a child genius, looked at her and saw a future he wished he had. None of his fantastical projections were within her reach; she was no more threatening than a fly.

Once this body reached adulthood, she'd be outed as normal, no more capable than any of her classmates. She would be no star scientist, no brilliant speaker, no changer of worlds. Just plain old Joan Chambers, with sour milk skin, brown cow eyes framed by black glasses, and rusty orange hair wound in two thick braids.

Nothing was more stifling than the heavy expectations of adults. They made her feel like an imposter, like the ground was crumbling beneath her.

Suddenly Joan felt sick. She didn't want to go to class and face that dispassionate crowd of children. She didn't want to look at Brad's bruises and be reminded of her failures. Instead, she would go home, call CPS immediately, and put an end to this.

The campus was refreshingly quiet during class. Joan walked past the classrooms towards the front entrance, enjoying the blooming flowers and mid-morning birdsong. Only one adult spotted her, but her studious reputation afforded her lenience. He simply assumed she was headed towards the main office and turned away.

She probably should have felt guilty for cutting class, but instead she felt only joy. What was the point of going to school when you were just going to die in an explosion anyway? What good would an education do when war and waste devoured this lush greenery, and porn became the new currency?

Joan had left the school and walked a few blocks when she heard footsteps behind her. She paid it no mind at first, busy enjoying the scenery of shops and shrubbery, but the slapping of sneakers on the pavement grew louder until she was thrown into a brick wall.

The world went blurry. Pain burst in her arms as he recognized Brad, gripping her arms and looking furious. He said nothing, but he squeezed her arms harder, nails tearing into her skin. Brad looked down, as though trying to calm himself. Vivid images of his future burst into Joan's mind: Brad in the desert, gulping down a drug that would twist his body beyond recognition; Brad beating down every man who threatened his daughter; Brad, who burned away Buddy's innocence until she was as hard and bitter as he.

Her friend was dangerous. He was capable of anything, so long as he had the moral high ground, so Joan needed to find the root of his anger. "What's wrong?" Although she wanted to sound calm, fear made her voice tremble.

Brad still didn't meet her eyes. Shadow engulfed his downturned face until his eye sockets became two black holes shrouding his inner thoughts. "He told me."

_ Who? _Joan wanted to ask, but she had a feeling it was Sticky. "What did he tell you?"

Brad glared. "He said you might get me into trouble with my dad."

Joan had to bite her cheek to suppress the anger bubbling in her stomach. She needed to stay calm and talk him down. Otherwise, he might smash her face into the bricks. "All I want is to help you," she said. "So, I was just going to ask for help."

She tried to move, but Brad's hands held her still. He smelled like sweat and fear. "From who?" He asked slowly, watching her with dark suspicion.

"From CPS."

Brad jerked her forwards before slamming her into the wall. Her head ached against the hard impact, and her back muscles burned in pain. "So, _ you _ were the one who called them!"

"I-I haven't done anything yet." Sweat trickled down her face.

"Don't lie to me!" Joan flinched. "You called them months ago! Dad thought I had reported him. He thought I was trying to get him in trouble!"

"But the purpose isn't to get anyone in trouble," Joan said. "It's to help kids who are being hurt—"

"Bullshit," he spat. "All it _ did _ was hurt me!"

"It won't be like that this time!" Joan said. "If they come, they'll see how badly you're hurt. They'll take you and Lisa away and—"

"Don't talk about Lisa!" Brad dug his nails into her skin, drawing blood.

"Okay, I won't!" Joan swallowed hard, struggling to think of the right thing to say. Brad's grip didn't falter, and she realized she'd have to wear long sleeves to cover up the bruises.

He didn't say anything for a long time. As the moments passed, her heart beat in tandem with the throbbing waves of pain throughout her body. "I won't do anything you don't want me to," she said. "I won't call them!"

Finally, Brad showed an emotion other than rage. His eyebrows raised in disbelief. "You won't?"

"I promise!" She said, desperate for him to let go. "I swear I won't call them. I'm sorry for thinking of it, Brad."

He looked at her intensely, trying to find a trace of manipulation, but the trembling girl with sweat and tears pouring down her face was clearly no threat. "You should be," he said.

Joan nodded like a bobblehead, willing to say whatever it took to appease him. Her back and arms ached. When he didn't say anything for a few minutes, she whispered, "Hey, Brad? Can you please let me go?"

"Oh."

He released her arms, and sure enough, dry blood and scratch marks scarred her skin. All Joan wanted to do was flee, but sudden movements might trigger Brad into another episode. Never before had she looked at him and felt fear, but maybe she should have seen this coming. Arrogance had stopped her from thinking clearly. She wasn't special enough to change him. It was stupid of her to think she could have had a big impact through her friendship alone. Five months meant nothing to someone like Brad, who couldn't tell his lifelong friends about his mother's death until months after the fact. He was slow to trust, and it was likely that now, any faith he had in her was shattered.

Joan licked her chapped lips as she took slow, backward steps. Brad frowned. "Aren't you going back to class?"

"No," she said. "I feel like if I went back, I would have a panic attack!"

"A what?"

"Never mind! Ha, ha, ha!" Joan laughed hysterically. She clamped her hand over her mouth to hide the manic energy in her voice. "I think I'll just go home and sleep."

"But it's so early. How can you be tired?"

Joan took another step back. "I don't sleep just because I'm tired. It's a good way to pass the day."

He came closer. "Why would you do that?"

"Sometimes I sleep when I'm sad, or overwhelmed," Joan said, widening the gap between them. "It just, um — it shuts the brain off, ha, ha, you know what I mean?" She laughed again, a grating, desperate sound, when Brad followed her.

"I get it," he said. "Hey, why are you walking like that?"

"Like what?" She ran her tongue over dried lips.

"In that weird way."

"Oh, I just want to go home!" Joan said it with a saccharine smile so he wouldn't be offended. "Actually, I'm gonna head over now. Bye!"

Her heart pounded in her chest, and after a few steps away, her throat felt dry from either thirst or tension. She nearly had a heart attack when Brad popped up. "I'll go with you," he said, falling into step with her.

"Are you sure? Don't you want to go to class?"

He frowned. "What's the point? I'm not going to learn anything."

Joan's gaze stayed on the road ahead; she wasn't sure if she felt comfortable looking at his face again. "You don't know that," she said quietly.

Brad shrugged. They walked on for a few moments, Joan puzzling over what had just happened, trying to adjust her goal now that this newfound mistrust had thrown a wrench in her plans. She would have to be better at thinking on her feet if Brad's emotions would be a wild card from now on.

Calling CPS wasn't a plan she would abandon. It was an important resource that could change the course of Brad and Lisa's lives for the better. _ Sticky's just an ignorant nobody, _ she thought, blood pressure rising at the thought of his sneering rat face. _ Stupid people fear what they don't understand, and he spread that fear onto Brad. I'm not going to let his ignorance poison my friend's future. _

She cast a sideways glance towards Brad. _ Maybe I should have my own future in mind, too, _ she thought. If she did report Marty to the authorities, she may need have to prepare for retaliation. Clearly Brad didn't understand anything about the organization, and Joan feared that if she tried to explain it, he might turn violent again.

_ I hate that I have to walk on eggshells around him. _He hadn't told her about what they'd done during game night. It was Cheeks and Rick who excitedly told her about how they'd all helped Lisa. It was Cheeks and Rick whose faces fell into confusion when they wondered why Brad showed up to school battered.

"We did so much," Cheeks told her earlier. "We really helped her, and it was kind of impressive, especially since we did it all by ourselves."

"I don't know why Brad's dad would hurt him," Rick said. "Like, was he mad that Brad asked for help? But what was he supposed to do? Stay at home and worry, all by himself? What if something bad had happened?"

"Yeah!" Cheeks said, nodding vigorously. "Two heads are better than one, right? How about four heads?"

Their words bounced around Joan's brain. To ask Brad what had enraged Marty was out of the question. It was probably something minuscule; his father had a hair-trigger temper.

Cars buzzed by: brown vans stuffed with harried parents, yellow taxis ferrying businessmen, and one hideous, ancient, tiny crimson car with duct tape holding up its side-view mirrors. The eyesore caught Joan's eye as it lurched down the street, coughing up gas as it approached them. The man driving the car was equally ugly: His bald head looked greasy above a pair of old, smudged sunglasses, and his enormous, Hawaiian shirt was riddled with stains.

Joan recognized him at the exact moment that Marty saw his son.

"Brad!" His scream was loud enough to make both children jump a foot into the air. Marty pulled the rickety car to an abrupt stop, and horns blared through the air as cars in the slow lane swerved to avoid hitting him. He rolled the window down and called out: "What the _ fuck _ are you doing outside of school?"

Joan couldn't believe she was seeing him in the flesh. Although she knew what he had become, and she knew where his life would lead, looking into his eyes was an out-of-body experience. She had built him up as a grotesque monster in her head, focusing on the evils he would inflict, but now that she saw him, she felt heartache rather than righteous anger. _He's changed so much since I died,_ she thought. Her heart drooped with disappointment, but she wiped those feelings away when she saw Brad trembling. _I have to be strong for him._ She took a deep breath and lit up her face in a megawatt smile, hurrying over to the car, acting like nothing was wrong.

"Hello there!" She said excitedly, pretending Marty hadn't just screamed at them in broad daylight. "It's so nice to finally meet you!"

"What?" He turned to his son. "Who the hell is this, and why is she with you?"

Brad was frozen, so Joan resumed her merry voice, trying to blast the tension away through the force of saccharine insincerity. "I'm Joan, his classmate. Our teacher sent us off on an errand, but we'll be back to class soon."

Marty was clearly pissed, but he stayed in the car, disarmed by her unrelenting cheer. Joan met his perplexed face with a smiling mask before stepping away. "Well, we don't want to keep Mr. Sands waiting!" She said. "Goodbye, sir!"

Although she'd started to leave, Brad stayed put, standing as still as a statue. When he didn't respond to her call, Joan gently linked her arm in his, pulling him forward. That seemed to break him out of his spell. "Come on, Brad," she whispered. "Let's go."

After a few steps away, the car door slammed shut. "Wait just a minute," Marty called out.

Joan pulled her arm back and shielded Brad. Now she was a barrier between the two. If Marty wanted to get to Brad, he'd have to hit her, and if he hit her, witnesses would support her in court. People sitting at the café across the street would surely notice. Perhaps a passing driver would pull over. Unlike Brad, she didn't have to swallow his abuse, since she wasn't his kid. If he tried anything, she'd run to her parents for help. _ Hopefully it won't come to that, though. _Brad's welts still stung her arms.

"Yes, sir?" Anger boiled in Joan's stomach, but expressing it could get her slapped, so she painted whimsy over her rage and hoped Marty wouldn't see through the cracks.

He lifted his smudged sunglasses and squinted at her. "Are you two friends?"

"Yes, sir." Joan's feelings were conflicted on that front, but she'd have to sort it out later.

Marty didn't look convinced. "Do you go to game night?"

Brad stiffened behind her, but Joan didn't know why. "Sometimes."

Marty licked his lips. "Were you with them last time?"

Now she understood Brad's fear. Joan took a deep breath and stood to her full height, which was meager compared to Marty's tall, thick stature. Unsure of what to say, Joan just smiled at him and tried to think of the perfect response. Saying "no" would be the end of it, but what if saying "yes" helped Brad?

She took a chance. "Yes, sir. I also met Lisa when Brad brought her over."

Brad took in a sharp breath just as Marty exhaled through his nose, fanning foul breath across her face. "Hmmm," he said. "You met my daughter, did you. And how did she look to you?"

_ Like an angel, _ she could say. But then Marty could snap that she was sick and use it against her. _ She looked terrible, _Joan could say, referencing her sickness, but then Marty might interpret it as an insult. She wanted to clear Brad of any blame. She wanted to take on all of the guilt. "I was so grateful that Brad brought her to Rick's house. I've been wanting to see her for _forever_," she babbled. "I've always wanted a little sister, and I've been begging him to let me meet her. When he left, I asked him to please bring Lisa over so I could finally meet her! So, you see, the reason she left the house was because me. It's all my f—"

Marty stepped closer, leaning over her. Under his shadow, Joan could smell the ghastly tang of old cigarettes, body odor and last night's booze. "You called our house?" He demanded.

Joan froze, caught in a lie. _ What if the phone's disconnected because he doesn't pay the electricity bill? _But that couldn't be true; Marty was always watching TV. She decided to stand her ground and stick with her lie. "Y-yes."

"How often do you call the house?"

_ Uh, never, _ she thought. But she said, "Not often."

"Don't call the house anymore."

"Sure thing." Joan's face hurt from smiling. He seemed to believe her, for most of the anger dissolved from his coarse features. "Thank you so much for your patience and understanding. It was nice to see her sweet, little face, even if she was a little under the weather. Luckily, I'm really good with babies, and we all took good care of her, so she should make a full recovery soon." Hopefully, simpering would flatter his ego and make him more susceptible to her lies. Marty finally leaned back, and Joan was relieved to be free of his shadow. She laid it on thick: "I'm so grateful that you were generous enough to let me finally meet her, even if she was feeling a bit sick."

Was it accurate? No. But it seemed to work. Marty grinned as he scratched his corpulent chin, liking the narrative that he was a generous father indulging a dumb girl who wanted to meet his baby. "Shit, thank _ you." _ He chuckled. "It's good to be appreciated."

"You're welcome. It was nice to meet you. Now, Brad and I should really go—"

"You know, if you liked seeing Lisa so much, I can let you come back." Marty's voice was lower now, suggesting something Joan couldn't understand. He smirked like he'd said something clever, and Joan smiled back politely, her mind blank. "We could use a female around the house."

"Oh!" Joan gasped, and this time her emotions were genuine. She never considered the possibility of working with Marty. She always imagined that the only way she could see Lisa would be behind his back. If she took up his offer, she could rescue Lisa right from under his nose. "I would love to help you out. Like a babysitter!"

Marty laughed at that, and an enormous hand thumped down onto her head. It hurt, but Marty didn't seem to care when she flinched and struggled to get away; he gripped her head and kept her in place. "I like your enthusiasm, kid," he said, grinning humorlessly. A knowing look flashed in his beady eyes as he held her still by the scalp. For a moment, Joan was terrified that he might recognize her, but finally, he let her go. Once he got back into his car, he smirked at her, ignoring his son completely. "I'll see you real soon."

His ratty old car tore down the streets, cutting off other drivers and nearly running a red light.

Brad stared at her in disbelief. "Why did you do that?"

"I told you," Joan said. "I just want to help you."

"This better not be a trick," Brad said. "You better not think of going behind my back and—"

"You don't have to worry about anything. I'm a woman of my word," Joan said. Brad wrinkled his nose, irked by a young, squeaky-voiced child referring to herself as a woman. Luckily, he didn't say anything: He walked away without another word, leaving her alone beside the buzzing traffic.

Cars whooshed by and horns blared at one another. Joan stared over the traffic, but her eyes took in nothing.

She wished she could have told Brad, but he could never understand. Working in the monster's lair was a golden opportunity she refused to squander.


	7. Brad IV

Nothing made sense anymore.

Ever since mom passed away and dad turned evil, Brad fell into a familiar pattern that helped him cope with life's changes. Once he passed the threshold of his house, he would fall silent, unless it was to mutter, "Yes, sir" or give dad whatever answer he wanted to hear. He would do his homework, sneak out the back door to do karate, take care of Lisa, and, more often than he cared to admit, cry himself to sleep.

It didn't make him feel good, but it was numbing in its repetitiveness. He got used to being quiet in his house, became accustomed to the cackling TV and heavy solemnity.

Joan broke his pattern. When she came by — usually two or three times a week — she brought her pushy and inquisitive nature to Brad's home, spurring him to speak and smile as they worked together to care for Lisa. Some things never changed; Brad was quiet and blank whenever his father was in eyesight, but Joan would lead him away from that suffocating presence to private places where he felt free to be himself. If she noticed the yellowed, peeling paint on the walls, or the effervescent reek of stale puke and liquor stains, she never said a thing. She became more doting than ever, holding Lisa close, kissing her cheeks, and calling her pet names.

Joan wasn't quite motherly, but she coddled and cosseted his sister the way a loving grandma might. Brad had never met Grandma Armstrong, since she died before he was born. In the rare times when dad mentioned his mother, he spoke with a tender fondness that bordered on worshipful. "She would have loved you kids," dad said once, after a few bottles of beer. Brad liked to imagine dad was right, and grandma would have loved them unconditionally. Unfortunately, Joan was the closest thing to a female role model his little sister had.

As Lisa grew like a sapling in the spring, so too did her longing for outside exploration. Although she couldn't speak in full sentences yet, Lisa communicated her desires clearly. Little hands would grab Brad's shirt and pull him outside so they could play. Initially, he was hesitant to draw dad's ire, but he learned that Marty wouldn't protest if Lisa stayed out of the neighbors' sight. After that, he would run and play with his sister under the endless blue sky.

On days when she came to visit, Joan would join in their games, staining her jeans with grass and mud. She made flower bracelets for Lisa, pointed out the caterpillars and the birds. Lisa adored every second she spent outside. She loved to brighten up her shabby room with flowers, loved to run near the river that flowed through their property. She was a ball of energy who exhausted them after their games, but she loved lying on the grass and watching clouds once playtime ended. It was on one of these days that Joan looked over at Brad and said, "I need to tell you something."

"What is it?"

Her brown eyes were disarmingly serious. "I want you to know that, no matter what happens, I'll always be your friend. No matter what you do, no matter how much time passes without us seeing each other… I'll always support you."

He frowned. "What are you talking about? We see each other every day in school."

Joan shook her head. "I mean, when we're older. When I start working, I'm gonna be really busy, and I won't be able to see you and Lisa as often as I'd like. You may go months, or even years without seeing me, and I — I don't want you to forget about me, okay? I don't want you to ever think that I don't care about you."

"That's so far away," he said. "You won't start working until you're 18, at least. Why are you worried about that?"

Joan turned her gaze to the light blue sky above. "It's not _ that _ far away," she muttered. "Life goes by so quickly...and besides, I already have a job lined up."

"Seriously?" Brad blinked. "How?"

"I met a man. We...talked." Joan frowned at the clouds. "And he said once I get older, he'll allow me to serve him."

"He'll _ allow _you to serve him?" Brad scoffed. It sounded like something a king would say to a peasant. "What kind of job is it?"

Joan shook her head. "It would take too long to explain. But it's something I need to do. Something I think could change our futures for the better. I'm lucky for this opportunity. I'm lucky he's taking a chance on me."

"You don't look very happy."

Her large, brown eyes flickered to his face. "I'm not looking forward to it. But it's my destiny."

Brad's brow furrowed. "Come again?"

"You're my destiny, too." Before Brad could tell her just how strange a statement that was, she went on. "We're connected by fate, you know. And blood. God put me back on earth to help you and save the world."

Brad sat up. "Are you on drugs?"

Joan gasped. "Of course not!" She spluttered. "Why would you say that?"

"You sound crazy." He squinted at her. "Did you drink some of dad's beer?"

"No, I didn't." Joan wrinkled her nose. "Not today, at least. But your dad...last time I was here, he made me taste a little bit. It was awful."

Her words sparked a memory he'd forgotten. "It really is." Brad leaned over to pet Lisa's hair. She lay on the grass between them, cuddled into his side, long black hair splayed over the blades of grass. Tired from their earlier game of tag, she was now nearly asleep: her eyes were closed, and her chest rose slowly. Brad lowered his voice. "One time, dad tried to make me taste some of his beer. Said it would put hair on my chest, make me a man. I took one sip and gagged. He was so mad he stomped out. I was alone in the house—"

"I wish he would leave us alone," Joan muttered. "Go on another stupid bender. Then I could take you and Lisa to my house and you can have a good, healthy, home-cooked meal for once."

"Dad would never let Lisa leave."

Joan's face darkened. "I know. But I'm still mad that he's always around. I don't like him."

Brad raised his eyebrows. "I wouldn't have known. You're so nice to him."

"I have to be. For you." The back of Joan's hand caressed Lisa's cheek. "And her."

"Well, you're probably the reason he hasn't left in a while." Brad put an arm behind his head, watching the drifting clouds. "He likes you. I think you calm him down."

"He only likes me because I'm familiar."

"_Familiar? _ He just met you."

Joan's eyes became serious again. "Brad, I told you: we're connected by blood. Your father and I—"

"Will you stop with that weird shit?" He snapped. Then Joan's sad expression made him feel guilty. It was easy to be short with her since she spoke so much nonsense, but she was never mean or disparaging. Her long, pale face wore a clownish expression of shame, so now he felt like he'd kicked a puppy. "Anyway, I was gonna tell you a story."

"Okay." Joan lay down on the grass again, turning her brown eyes to the wispy world above. "Tell me."

"So, after my dad left, I decided to try the beer again. He left a full bottle behind… but it still tasted really bad. I wanted to enjoy it like he does. I thought sugar would make it taste better."

Joan's jaw dropped. "You put sugar in it?"

"Yeah, but it wasn't good. So I thought, 'Another drink that's bad is coffee. And you put cream in coffee to make it taste better.' So I put some cream in it, too."

"What did it taste like?"

"Death and ass."

When Joan laughed, she snorted like a pig. "Oh my God! What did you do with it?"

"I poured the rest of it out and threw the bottle away. Then I told dad, when he came back, that I drank it all."

"What did he do?"

"He patted my head and said, 'Good man.'" Brad frowned. "That was a long time ago. Mom… mom was mad when she heard about it. But later on, she laughed like you."

"Was this before Lisa was born?"

Brad nodded. "Yeah, a few months before."

"You were 11, right? I can't believe he gave you beer when you were so young!"

"...Actually, I was 10 at the time."

"That's even worse!" Joan shook her head. Thick red braids flopped over her shoulders and smacked her chubby cheeks. "So, you're… how old now?"

"I'll be 12 in August."

"So young!" Joan hugged her knees to her chest. "Much too young…"

"Aren't you a whole year younger than me?"

Joan blinked. "Wait, how do you know that?"

"You skipped a grade. We all knew about it. Remember when Mr. Sands introduced you to the class?"

"No, not at all." She looked perplexed, like he was speaking in tongues. "I thought you didn't even know I existed."

He shrugged. "Of course I knew you existed. We just weren't friends back then."

"I'm glad that's changed." Joan grinned. "I'm happy that I can hang out with you now. And I hope we'll always be friends, no matter what happens."

"Don't worry about it." Brad yawned. "We should head back. It's getting late."

They walked through the long-dead garden and stepped in through the backdoor. Brad liked going the long way around so they could avoid the living room. They set Lisa down and Joan left with a polite goodbye to dad. Joan always wore a smile that was strained at the corners when he was around. Although she claimed to hate Brad's father, she was unfailingly demure and quiet in his presence, refusing to meet his gaze.

Dad ate it up. Most people in town thought he was a washed-up loser, and his filthy dress and manner did little to inspire respect or admiration. Joan was one of the few people Brad had ever seen treating his dad well. He should have known dad would start giving her special treatment.

One day, Brad walked downstairs to find Joan in a deep conversation with dad. He could see the backs of their heads, illuminated by the glaring light of the TV screen. Brad lingered in the doorway and listened in, but nothing they said made sense.

"She was so good to me. So gentle n' loving…then my old man caught us. Tried to put a stop to it." Dad spoke with the telltale slur of several drinks. "Got into her head, twisted her up, made her think she was wrong…"

"What was she wrong about?" Joan asked.

"Nothing!" Dad shouted. "Everything she did, I asked for."

Joan should have let it go after that outburst, but it seemed curiosity overpowered her self-preservation. "What was your father's problem, then?"

Dad heaved a huge sigh. "He just didn't understand us."

"So…you never felt like she hurt you, or took advantage of you?"

Dad snorted. "Shit, I wanted her to do _m__ore. _That's how parents show their love." He took another swig as Joan sputtered, so shocked she could barely speak.

"I-I-I don't think that's true at all! Your dad was right! He—"

"—knew jack shit about me, and even less about her. His morals were fucking worthless. Everything we did was wrong and everything he did was perfect. You can't believe a man like that. He'd beat her bloody and then turn around and yell that she was sick. He was wrong. Dead wrong!"

"B-but, he's not the only one who thinks it's wrong for parents to—"

"He and everyone else who thinks that way can fuck off into the sunset, for all I care!" Dad snapped. "I'm not hearing another word about this." Joan started sniffling, and Brad saw dad's head move closer to her. "Why the hell are you crying?"

Joan hiccuped through her tears. "I just feel so guilty about what happened to you!" Her next words were engulfed by rough sobs, so she had to wait a few moments to catch her breath. "I'm so sorry, Martin…I'm so, so sorry…"

Dad sighed. "You just don't get it, do you?"

But Joan kept crying and babbling apologies. "I was so wrong, and I'm so sorry…can you ever forgive me?"

"Lemme just…take that drink back. You've had a little too much." There was silence for a few moments as Joan continued to cry. "You've got a lot to learn. Good thing I'm here to teach you."

Brad had heard enough. Confused, he turned around and stepped up the stairs, but he couldn't focus on his homework. He kept turning Joan's words over in his mind, wondering why she was apologizing and what she and dad had been talking about. Unable to focus, he went into Lisa's room. "Hey," he said. Lisa's blue-green eyes lit up when she saw him, and she reached over the crib.

"Hey, Brad!" She squealed in her sweet, high-pitched voice. Even though she was barely 16 months old, she was the only person in the house who made any sense. She gurgled with joy when he picked her up and cradled her, petting his cheeks with her soft little hands. Brad closed his eyes and sang her one of mom's old lullabies.

_ "From this valley they say you are going, I will miss your bright eyes and sweet smile, For they say you are taking the sunshine, That has brightened our pathway the while…" _

Lisa was dozing off by the time the song was over. She would have fallen into slumber if dad's ear-rattling scream didn't jerk her eyes open.

"BRAD!" Marty's voice was as hard as a beer bottle to the skull. Brad raced downstairs. "Walk Joan home tonight. I wanna make sure my girl gets home safe." He gave her an ugly smile that made her shrink back and cover her face. Without a word, Brad nodded and walked with her under twilight skies. Joan was mouse-quiet the whole time, staggering but refusing his help. At one point, she excused herself to vomit into a bush.

When they reached her house, Joan's parents welcomed him in for dinner, and Brad once again marveled at how light and cheerful her home was. As Mr. and Mrs. Chambers chattered about how nice it was that she had a friend over, Brad couldn't help but notice the way she moved her food around her plate, eating nothing. Her pale, solemn face looked like it had aged by three decades. Joan looked like a ghost.

He thought she would stop coming after that, but she dutifully returned as often as she could. No matter how hard Brad tried to see things from her perspective, he could never understand why she kept coming back, even after that night. He never asked what happened, and she never told him. She just kept smiling that strained smile that didn't reach her eyes, helping with Lisa and encouraging him and coming back, week after week, month after month.

_ Maybe she really is crazy, _ Brad thought.

Sometimes, when Joan came around, she would slither around the house like a spy on a top-secret mission, moving things around and hiding packages when she thought no one was looking. The first time Brad caught her, she was placing a plastic baggie beneath the kitchen sink. He didn't call her out on it; instead, he took it out when she left — but it was just a bag full of flour. It made no sense. Could it have been a gift because they were poor? But then, why would she hide it behind the rusty pipes? She had been so careful to put it somewhere no one would see it.

Another time, Brad caught Joan hiding a bag of sugar underneath Lisa's crib. He sniffed it when she left, but it was nothing out of the ordinary. Unsure of what she was doing, he set it back in its hiding place, but he still felt uneasy. Joan did a lot of strange things — what was she doing when he wasn't looking? The only reason he'd caught her in the first place was because he overheard her strange whispering.

"You're going to live a long and happy life." Brad peeked through the door, which was mostly closed, and found her cradling his sister. "You won't be like me. You will never surrender, I'll make sure of it. You're my second chance…"

After she gave her strange, cryptic message, Joan set Lisa down and hid the sugar. Brad wanted nothing more than to barge in and ask what the hell she was doing — but he was afraid she might not come back if he did. Whether or not Joan was crazy, she made his life more bearable. As strange as Joan was, she was unfailingly loyal and true to her word; she never called any organizations to get him in trouble. Instead, she seemed to content herself with hanging around the house and hiding her little packages.

Still, she was far from his favorite friend. That honor went to Rick, who was kind enough to throw Brad a birthday party in August. It was hosted at Rick's home, which was fine by Brad, because the Weeks family made him feel safe and welcome. They treated him like a second son and smiled when they saw him. If it weren't for his sister, Brad would probably move into their house and never leave.

As Lisa grew older, she became bolder as well as greedy with people's time. One day, she waddled over to dad's couch and pressed the off button on the TV remote. "Daddy play!" She yelled, and dad slapped her, straight in the face. She screamed and sobbed after that, inconsolable.

Brad had to rush her upstairs and hold her tight so she would stop bothering dad. She was too young to accept the life she'd been born into, sulking for days, until dad woke up in a good mood and gave her a treat. Dad had even _ apologized _as he bounced her on his knee. Lisa perked up at this and giggled in pleasure. He also promised never to hit her again.

It was a lie. He smacked her often, though never when Joan was around. It made Brad angry, because if dad had the restraint not to hit her when they had company, he should have stopped altogether.

But if he voiced his thoughts, he'd get another black eye, so when Lisa cried after being hurt, Brad would scoop her up and take her away. On more nights than he could count, he put her down to bed and watched her cry, choking on his own incompetence. He couldn't think of anything to say, so he patted her, pulled the covers over her frail, shaking body, and left.

Living in this house was exhausting. In contrast, Rick's home was heaven. He started to spend more and more time at Rick's house, basking in the warmth of a kind and supportive environment. But guilt gnawed at him: In his absence, Marty and Lisa were alone together. Eventually, he would return with his tail between his knees.

Things got better once the new school year began. When September rolled around, Brad started to enjoy going to class. It helped that their new teacher wasn't a flaming asshole who mocked the kids. Joan seemed to revive her old self as well, speaking up in class and making everyone groan with her long-winded answers.

Then there were the fighting lessons, which Brad had started improvising. He remembered very little of what Grandpa Armstrong had taught him, and soon he'd exhausted his memory of fighting moves. Luckily, he had a wealth of imagination to fall upon, and as his friends would roughhouse in the woods after school, he found himself growing proud when he saw how much they were learning, how much they enjoyed the Armstrong style.

"There's no better feeling than owning your own dojo, son," Grandpa Armstrong told him long ago, the first time Brad saw the mats, the mirrors, the powerful men fighting one another. "You know why that is?"

"Um…" Brad looked around, marveling at the inside. To him, it seemed enormous and magical. "Because it's all yours?"

"Close. Because it's an opportunity to lead." Grandpa Armstrong put his hand on Brad's back and led him forward, where a teacher was instructing a row of teenagers. "Leadership builds you into a better man. It teaches you how to work with people and make them better, too."

Brad couldn't remember what he said after that, but he recalled his grandpa letting out a deep laugh and rustling his hair. He remembered the rush of warmth that ran throughout his body, as well as the newfound admiration for the art of teaching. _ Someday, I want to be just like that, _ he thought. When the dojo shut down and grandpa moved, Brad figured that career was out of reach. Now, however, he realized that his dream was coming to life, albeit in a different way than he imagined. Instead of teaching children once he was an adult, he was just a young kid teaching his friends.

Since they were mostly his same age, he couldn't rely on power and superiority to make them respect him as a teacher. Instead, he had to lead them through the power of his personality and techniques. Over time, he learned to encourage them and correct their errors with kind suggestions. He was far from perfect, but it was a two-way learning experience filled with fun. Brad's mind wandered back to his long-forgotten dream of upholding the Armstrong tradition and teaching martial arts professionally. If he couldn't work for grandpa, perhaps Brad could start his own dojo, right here. He already had loyal customers in the form of his best friends.

The idea filled him with hope, something he hadn't felt in a long time. He clung to the memory of grandpa's dojo and of the noble words he'd imparted before disappearing.

Grandpa's idea of manhood was better than dad's. Dad thought drinking beer and being cruel is what makes a man, but grandpa taught Brad that a man is a good leader who helps other people improve. Dad could say nasty things about grandpa until he turned blue in the face. He could throw every letter and package with Edwin Armstrong's name into the garbage. But he could never wipe away Brad's memories of the kind, strong and inspiring man he knew.

When Brad worked with his friends, teaching them martial arts and self-defense, he felt close to his grandpa, even though he was a hundred miles away.

The idea helped him through the long nights, when his self-hating thoughts kept him up. Even if he never saw grandpa again, Brad could make him proud by growing into a better man than his father.


	8. Sticky II

Sticky especially loved learning martial arts. As he and his friends practiced in the woods, throwing kicks and punches against imaginary enemies, they learned how to defend themselves with the Armstrong style.

So, when an after-school baseball game was interrupted by a gruff "Howdy, motherfuckers," Sticky and his friends were prepared.

Chris Columbo and his gang of so-called "Gents" stood by the edge of the dirt diamond like a pack of wolves fresh from the hunt. Last time Brad's gang was ambushed, Columbo used his stolen ball as an excuse for the beatdown. This time, the sneer on his face made it clear that he wasn't here for revenge; the Gents simply wanted a fight, and they figured Brad's gang would make perfect punching bags.

When he saw them, Sticky immediately tensed. His mind went back to that day, months ago, when he'd gone blank after being beaten by those same smug boys. Then he watched Brad, their unofficial leader, stand up to his full height and glare at Chris. For a few moments, nobody moved; then Chris walked closer to Brad, and the two boys stood nose-to-nose in an angry standoff.

Sticky was playing as an outfielder, so he was too far away to hear what Chris was saying. But he heard the sharp smack of Brad's fist against Chris's face, and then it was _ on_.

He rushed forwards, trying to reach Brad before he got tackled, but Larry and Sergei jumped on him before he could get over. Then pineapple-haired Tom Cream joined the Brad-based dogpile. Sticky screamed some wild, nonsensical war cry to amp himself up as he jerked Larry by the back of his shirt and Cheeks grabbed Sergei; they pulled the boys off of Brad, who now wrestled on the ground with Tom.

Soon there was an all-out brawl on the sandlot. In-between ducks and punches, Sticky saw Chris throw Rick to the ground, but the blue-eyed boy jumped to his feet before Chris could kick his stomach. Satisfaction ran through Sticky's system when he saw the shock on Chris's face, and it only got better when Rick threw a punch straight into that shit-eating grin. Sure, it wasn't the strongest punch in the world, but he had the element of surprise on his side, since he'd never before attacked Columbo, who constantly mocked him for being a "weak little bitch." Now he was eating his words, and when Rick threw him to the ground in a sweeping low kick, Chris ate a mouthful of dust, too.

Sticky's attention shifted when a fist slammed his abdomen, stealing the air from his lungs. He staggered backwards, then fell when Tom and Larry tag-teamed him.

"Hang on, dude!" Cheeks yelled. He and Brad ran over and started wailing on the boys' backs, distracting them so Sticky could recover. For a moment, he drank in his friends' support; then he threw a sequence of Armstrong-style punches, sending one of the boys to the ground, groaning.

"Uncle! Uncle!" Larry yelled. His black bowl cut was stained with dirt. Soon his long-haired friend Sergei joined him on the ground, though he refused to give up, writhing and swearing as they kicked him.

Rick was running towards them, with Columbo hot on his heels. For all of the weakness in Rick's punches, he was as fleet-footed as a fox, and soon he was twenty feet ahead of Chris. Then, Sticky watched as sweet, sheltered Rick, the quintessential Good Christian Boy, dropped his trousers and mooned Columbo, who froze in shock. Brad dashed over and threw a punch, hitting again and again until the bully would have two black eyes beneath his sunglasses.

By the end of the battle, everyone was busted up and bruised. It was the first time a fight between their gangs ended in a draw rather than a massacre, so despite the aching in Sticky's stomach, he felt light with pleasure and pride.

Columbo's gang slunk away yelling threats, but Sticky and Cheeks slung profanities and threats right back at them, their middle fingers in the air as the Gents retreated.

It was a glorious victory: Brotherhood prevailed, and they'd proven themselves men who could hold their own in a fight.

"_Hell yeah!_" Cheeks yelled, pumping his fist in the air. "Take that, assholes!"

"That was amazing," Rick breathed, his pale eyes wide with barely-hidden glee. "I can't believe we got them to leave us alone!"

"I can't believe you mooned Chris!" Sticky laughed. "I don't remember Brad teaching us to flash our cheeks."

Rick blushed, and Brad let out a snicker. "I think you found your special move, huh?" He teased.

"I mean—as long as it works, right?" Rick's hands flew to his face, trying to hide his embarrassed grin.

"You're a genius, dude," Cheeks told him. "I'm gonna do that next time."

"But then, you won't have the element of surprise," Sticky said. "Since Rick already did it."

"Oh, dang, you're right." Cheeks thought for a moment. "So we gotta spice it up. Maybe we can, like, do a combo move?"

"What would _ that _be like?" Rick wondered. "Would we just drop our pants at the same time?"

"Yeah! I mean, imagine it. There's an enemy before us. We get to either side of him, ok? Then we slam our asses into him_—__at the same time! _No one could withstand that! Hell, they might even give up once they see what we're willing to do."

Rick smiled as he shook his head. "I can't even imagine that."

"Dude, we have to try it! We can call it the Weeks and Cheeks connection!"

Rick's knees buckled from hard laughter, and he leaned against a cackling Sticky so he wouldn't fall down. Cheeks then turned his excited eyes towards Brad. "It's all thanks to you, man! We couldn't have fought back like that without all your help."

Sticky clapped Brad on the back before his friend could start acting humble. "He's right! Thanks so much for sharing your family's secret style with us."

Brad smiled. "You're welcome, but it's not really a secret. Grandpa used to teach students in his dojo, before he moved away. I guess I'm just… picking up where he left off."

"Sounds like you're making him proud then," Sticky said. Then, for some reason, Brad's dark eyes got wet, and he looked down. "Hey man, you okay?"

"Yeah, I—" Brad's voice hitched with a barely-restrained sob, and Sticky stilled, unsure of what to do. He'd never seen Brad cry before, not even when he was beaten black and blue, not even when he talked about his rotten dad or his dead mom. Seeing him cry was surreal, unnatural, like a chicken in a submarine. Sticky locked eyes with Cheeks; both of them were frozen in uncertainty, but Rick, the softest of them all, stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Brad.

"It's okay," he said, his own blue eyes shiny with sympathy. Brad hugged him back, digging his round face into his best friend's shoulder.

Now that someone else took the lead, Cheeks joined in. "I'm getting in on this!" He declared, throwing his arms around Rick and Brad.

_ What the hell is going on? _Sticky wondered. They'd never hugged Brad; they rarely even hugged each other. He stood by for a second, wondering what had possessed his friends; then Cheeks grabbed his shirt and jerked him forward, so he had no choice but to lean into the group embrace.

It was the sweetest feeling he'd known for a long time, and soon Sticky relaxed, drinking in the support and warmth he felt from his friends. When they pulled apart and left for their respective homes, he was sad to see them go. He forgot to hide his smile as he entered the Angoneli house. "What the fuck are you smirking at?" Dad demanded.

"Nothing," Sticky said. He headed upstairs and sat on his bed, still happy despite dad's brusqueness. Something had changed, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

Life didn't give blessings often, but when she did, she was generous. The next day, Sticky walked to school with a spring in his step, eager to congratulate his friends on their martial prowess.

After Brad's gang gave the Gents the what-for, they were happier than they'd been in a long time, laughing in class despite their bruises. Cheeks was especially excited about his and Rick's potential tag-team move, and he lit up when talking about it. "So, ya see, here's what it's gonna be," he told Joan the next day. "Rick drops his pants, and so do I, right? So we get on either side of whoever we're fighting, and we attack him with our asses! It's brilliant!"

"I'm sorry, _what? _Why would you even do that?" Joan laughed so hard she had to take off her glasses and wipe her eyes. "I don't even understand _how_ that would work. How could you attack someone with your pants down? Wouldn't you trip?"

Cheeks cocked his head. "Why would we trip?"

"Because your pants would be around your ankles!"

"Well—I mean—even if they were, we wouldn't trip." He scoffed at the idea.

"No one's _that _nimble," Joan said, smiling. "Even if you have the element of surprise on your side, bare-butted and all, you'll lose that advantage cause you'll be hobbling around with your pants down—"

"You're taking this too seriously," Sticky sighed. "You're sucking the fun out of it."

"No, I'm _strengthening _your guys' fighting tactics." Joan waved her hand like he was nothing more than an obnoxious fly. "I have faith in Rick and Cheeks' abilities. I just want to help them come up with a battle plan."

_Are you making fun of us? _Sticky thought. He started to open his mouth to shoot out an accusation, but an eager Cheeks beat him to the punch.

"All right, all right! What about this? We lose the pants completely. We rip 'em off, and attack in our birthday suits!"

"Now, hold on a minute!" Rick cried.

Joan blinked. "So what, you're just gonna fight with your johnsons flopping around?"

"Uh, guys, I don't think—"

"Hell yeah, we will!" Fire raged in Cheeks' eyes. "That'll show 'em!"

"Show 'em _ what? _" Rick's pale blue eyes were as wide as saucers.

"It'll show 'em we've got nothing to fear." Cheeks grinned. "It's the animal kingdom, baby. You gotta bare it all and go hog wild!"

Joan burst out laughing, but Rick didn't look so sure. "I think I'm gonna, like, mentally leave this conversation now," he said with a grimace.

"Now, Cheeks, I admire your warrior's spirit," Joan said with a grin. "But I've got a...um... logistical concern. I'm just not sure how effective it'll be in battle, cause like, won't it hurt?"

"Would _ what _ hurt?" He asked.

"I mean, if you're running around with your dingalings free, won't they—you know—_hurt? _"

"Huh?" He looked at her like she was speaking French.

"I mean… if you're running naked... won't your johnsons, like, slap you?"

"You think our dongs are gonna slap us?" Cheeks barked out a huge laugh. "How big do you think they are?"

"I—_what? _ No!"

"That's okay." He said, smiling from ear to ear. "I'll take your advice to heart. Next time, before we do the move, we'll just throw our dongs over our shoulders so they don't slap us in the face, all right?"

"I'm just saying—"

"You're spending too much time thinking about our dingalings," Sticky said. It was the perfect comment: Joan's jaw dropped and her eyes went wide.

"Oh my _God!"_ She slapped her forehead. "You make it sound so terrible!"

"Y'know, it's an interesting hypothesis. You're really into science, right?" Sticky smirked. "Now I'm wondering: What _ are _ the physics of fighting with an 'unsheathed sword?' Is it a, what would you call it... a 'biological hazard?' Oh, I know! Maybe we should ask the teacher. He could probably answer all your burning questions about dicks."

Joan's face darkened until it nearly matched her hair color. "Don't you dare!"

Sticky locked eyes with her and slowly started to raise his hand. "Why not?" He blinked innocently. "It's an honest question about aerodynamics and anatomy—"

"Never mind!" She turned around in her seat so quickly that her twin braids flew around and slapped her in the face, much like the hypothetical dongs that captured her curiosity.

Sticky met Cheeks' eyes, and the two burst out laughing. Joan shook her head, blushing fiercely, before raising her hand to say she needed to use the restroom. It was most likely a lie; Joan always fled when things got too serious, and she always returned with a shiny, wet face, like she'd sloshed cold water over her cheeks to calm down.

As chance would have it, Sticky had to go, too. He waited a few minutes so he wouldn't meet her in the hallway before he headed out, smiling at the thought of their silly conversation. Nowadays, the crew was a lot happier than it used to be; Brad's martial arts lessons were another fun excuse to bring them all together, just like Rick's weekly board games. The Armstrong style, however, had the added benefit of teaching them cool moves and putting hair on their chest. Thanks to it, Sticky was feeling stronger than ever. Maybe it was just in his head, but he walked on sunshine more often than he ever did before.

It almost made dealing with his dad easier.

When he approached the restrooms and saw the mopping bucket, his heart sank. Sticky wasn't exactly ashamed of being the janitor's son, but it was something he'd been teased about, and when he was younger and more vulnerable, it made him feel small. Now, he cared less about what other people thought about him, but just being around his father made his heart pound with anxiety. He was always waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for his father to drop his fake, saccharine smile and attack. It had never happened in school before, mainly because Sticky made sure to never be alone with him, but he had nightmares about his dad hurting him at school, and all the other kids watching, doing nothing to protect him.

He shook his head quickly, trying to ward off the thoughts. His dad must be talking to himself, because the familiar low, mumbling drone slipped beneath the girl's bathroom door and into Sticky's eardrums. Without thinking, he stepped closer, trying to make out the words.

"Pretty clever for such a young kid," his dad was saying. It made no sense until Joan spoke.

"Um, not really, sir." The faucet creaked with an onslaught of water; she must have been washing her hands. Piss-poor luck to use the restroom while his father cleaned it. Mr. Angoneli hated his job with a burning passion, and of all his endless tasks, cleaning toilets was the one that infuriated him the most. He felt humiliated to clean after "snot-nosed little shits," and dealing with Joan, who acted as high and mighty as a queen, was like the cherry on top of his literal shit cake.

_ None of my business, _Sticky thought. He barely even liked Joan, so if his dad bothered her for a little bit, that was no skin off his nose. When he slipped into the boy's room, their voices faded into fuzzy murmurs. He tried to be fast; the last thing he wanted to do was see dad. As he washed his hands and stepped outside, he could hear them clearly.

"I-I'll be going, sir."

"Nonsense, what's the rush?"

"I—" Her words were cut off by a sharp gasp.

His father's voice dropped to an indiscernible register, speaking in the gentle tone people used with wild animals.

"_Please! _" Joan's voice was hoarse. Hysterical. "Please, just stop it!"

"I don't know what you're talking about," dad said in a sugary sweet, smiling voice.

Then a rumbling stampede sound grew louder and louder until Joan burst through the bathroom door, looking like she'd just been swept up in a tornado. Her frizzy red hair flew after her soggy, corpse-like face as she dashed away. She ran like a madwoman past the row of classrooms until she was in the farthest corners of the field, stumbling around the chain link fence that was wrapped in ivy. She looked around helplessly, like she'd fallen into another world.

Sticky's heart fell into his stomach. _ Shit, _ he thought. _ Was that how I looked, the first time? _

He watched as Joan stumbled around before disappearing behind a tree. When Sticky caught up, he found her leaning against the bark and puking. A hand wiped at her mouth, and her eyes were wet. She didn't spot him, must have thought she was alone, because she collapsed to her knees and pounded her fists against her head, yelling, "You dumb bitch! You're so stupid!"

Sticky was frozen for a moment—then he lurched forward and snatched her wrists, pulling her hands away to stop her self-harm. She gaped at him, snot running down her cheeks; then she turned away and muttered something to the ground. "No, no, no…"

Slowly, she lowered her head until it rested atop her knees in an awkward position. A dark patch of tears spread over her baggy jeans. Sticky crouched down beside her, his hand still clamped around her wrist. Now that she wasn't hitting herself, he should have let go, but he was worried that at any second she'd start hitting herself again. That was a frightening sight, and he didn't want to see it again.

He tried to think of something to say to make her feel better, but words would be ashes. There was nothing that could comfort her. Eventually her crying stopped, and she sniffled instead, trying to compose herself. Sticky looked away at the chain link fence, avoiding her face so she wouldn't be embarrassed.

They sat for so long that Sticky figured their teacher would give them a stern talking-to when they got back. After a minute, Joan croaked a thanks.

"Yeah," he said, looking down. His long, sallow hand looked strange against her chubby white wrist. "Um," he cleared his throat, "You know, you didn't do…anything wrong. It's all his fault, and you shouldn't—"

"It _ is _my fault," she said, swallowing hard.

"No." Sticky said in a shaking voice. Day after day, it was a string of strange happenings. First Brad, who never cried in front of anyone, broke in front of them. Now Joan, who was always so haughty and prideful, cried like an animal, and it was all because of his dad.

It was a sobering thought.

No one, not even someone like Joan, who was smart and talkative and friendly and the ideal student, could avoid pain. Sticky always figured that he got hurt because he deserved it; because his mom left him and his dad hated him, he must be wrong on some level. But Joan? She was a kid with two doting parents and an obsession with doing well in school, but she got hurt, humiliated, abused in the same way he had been. It made him sick to know that now they had something in common. Why couldn't it be something innocuous, like a game they both liked, or a cool show they bonded over? Now, he felt sympathy for her, wanted to comfort her, and it wasn't because he'd grown to like her as a person; it was because she was suffering in a way he'd suffered, and he didn't want anyone to blame themselves the way he had.

"It's really not your fault," he repeated, stronger this time. "Don't blame yourself. He's sick."

"I know he's sick," she said. "Or I should have known, but I forgot, 'cause I was distracted by other things." She wiped her nose, and a trail of slime smeared against her palm. "I thought it couldn't happen here. I thought it was safe here."

Sticky didn't completely understand what she meant at the beginning, but he knew the false feeling of safety. "There's no such thing as a safe place," he said. "There are evil people everywhere." He paused. Maybe he should have stopped, but he went on: "Some of us can't get away from them."

She sighed and licked her cracked lips. "I know. I can't, either. Even in this life, Marty follows me."

He frowned. "Who?"

"Is this divine punishment? Is this because I was such a failure?" She was rambling now, craning her head down, whispering into her knees. Sticky was losing her, so he grabbed the back of her shirt collar and gently guided her head up.

"I think I misheard you, but whatever you're saying, you're not to blame. Do you hear me?"

Joan started to say something, but he saw the pity and self-loathing in her eyes. It triggered something within him, so he let go of her wrist and stepped forward so they were face-to-face. Without thinking, he put his hands on her shoulders and gave her a rough shake. "Bad things happen to good people. That's life. Do you understand?"

"Of course I understand." A flash of anger lit up her dark, wet eyes. Good. It meant she was returning to her old, petulant, self-righteous self. "_You're _ the one who doesn't get it, Tony."

"Don't call me that," he snapped. "Only my dad calls me Tony."

"Why not? It's your name. Why should he ruin it?"

For once, Sticky had nothing to retort. Normally he loved shutting her down with snarky comments, but now, no clever comebacks or sneering jokes came to him. He spoke honestly instead. "I chose this name. _H__e_ chose the other one."

"Fine." Joan wiped her nose again, blinking the tears from her eyes. "God, I'm so angry. I'm sorry, but I'm just so angry I can barely think straight."

"That's good. You should be." Sticky nodded. "Just… don't be angry at yourself."

"I'm not," she said. "I'm angry at God. Why did he have to show me in _ that _way?"

"Show you what?"

But she wasn't listening. Her eyes went faraway again, and she stood up, knees creaking with the effort. "I know what I did was wrong," she murmured. Joan turned her sopping face to the sky, glaring into the clouds like they were the face of an enemy. "God, I know I wasn't the best mother. I killed myself because of it. But _ why?_"

"Joan—" Sticky tried to reach out, but she stepped away, jabbing an accusatory finger at the sky.

"Why would You make me suffer, again and again? I never did anything like what they've done to me. I wasn't good: I acknowledge that! Maybe this is Your way of humbling me, but why must You punish this faithful servant in such a degrading way?"

She was yelling. Now Sticky was worried she'd attract a teacher's attention, so once again, he placed himself in front of her and shook her shoulders. "Joan. What the hell are you talking about? You look like a lunatic!"

"Aren't I?" Her eyes flickered down to earth, down to him. "You've never liked me, have you? You're smarter than I gave you credit for."

"What's _ that _supposed to mean?"

"It means you're a good judge of character. You may not know why I'm here or who I am, but you know, on some level, that I just don't belong." Although her voice was strained from her earlier sobbing, there was no pain in her tone. Instead there was only emptiness, apathy, like she'd lost all her fight after arguing with God.

For a moment, Sticky felt grateful that his dad stopped taking him to church. Once mom left, faith and joy and the belief in purity and goodness went away with her. What was the point? Now that Sticky saw the consequences, the blind devotion and nonsensical ramblings, the scary shifts in character, he felt glad he stopped praying. Joan looked like an old, bitter woman now. She didn't look like a kid anymore, and her riddles made him cold.

"Joan… what _ are _you?"

"I should have done it a long time ago," she muttered.

"Done what?"

"I'll change things. I swear it, Tony." Joan seemed to think using his real name would convey her sincerity. Sticky was already convinced by the manic look in her eyes. "I'll make sure they don't hurt anyone again."

"They?"

She smiled. "You'll see."


	9. Joan III

God had finally made his intentions clear: It was time to kidnap Lisa.

The weeping rains poured their sorrows across the world, bathing the skies in dark grey gloom. The Armstrong house was a shabby specter against the landscape that seemed to tremble from the fearsome winds.

Joan stared at it as the rain beat down on her face. She blinked the water out of her eyes and rubbed at her misty glasses, eyeing the house and breathing deeply to calm herself. _This is why I was put on Olathe,_ she thought. _Be calm. This is your only purpose for being here. Stop being afraid and do it._

She forced one foot ahead, and then the next, until she was creeping down the muddy track that led up to this haunted home. The skies were dark with the night, and Brad and Lisa were probably in bed by now. That was for the best: It would be easiest to steal Lisa if she were asleep.

The heavy bag on Joan's back held an extra rain jacket she'd wrap around Lisa so the little girl wouldn't get sick. There was an extra pair of shoes so Joan wouldn't track mud and rain inside the derelict home. She wanted to leave no marks of her presence, but she was prepared for the possibility. That's why she carried a can of pepper spray in her left hand: If Marty caught her, she wasn't going down without a fight.

_I pray that won't happen,_ she thought, sneaking around the side of the house near the living room window. The mud squelched beneath her heavy, yellow rain boots, and she flattened against the wall, praying Marty wouldn't see her if he peered out. For a minute she stood still, but when she heard nothing beside the rainfall, she peered through the window and her heart hammered at the sight of Marty, fast asleep on the couch. Light from the TV flashed against his greasy face, but his eyes were screwed shut, and his bulging chest rose with the deep breaths of slumber.

If she wanted to, Joan could sneak through the front door. Marty left it unlocked, convinced no one would think they had anything to rob. But that ran the risk of waking him up, and then it would be game over. Instead, she stepped through the drowning garden, whose plants had long since withered, toeing her way towards the kitchen door. When she peered through the window, she found it empty. As Joan's rabbit heart pounded with fear, she reached out and twisted the doorknob, which clicked open with a low groan. No one came, so Joan gently stepped inside, her shoes squeaking against the hard floor.

She could hear Marty's loud snoring and the ticking of the 10 p.m. clock, so she sighed in relief and shut the door, throwing off her rain boots and leaving them by the kitchen. Silently, she slipped off her backpack and peeled off her wet socks, setting them next to the yellow boots. She pulled on the soft slippers she had packed, which rendered her steps as light as church mice.

Hunching down, Joan crawled out of the kitchen and down the hall, peering behind her to see the back of Marty's head. He was watching some idiotic, late-night show, with brightly dressed comedians and cackling crowds. Joan skipped the creaking stairs and crept up undetected, but when she reached Brad's room, she stiffened in fear.

The door was wide open, and Brad was crying.

A trickle of sweat ran down her temple, but Joan tip-toed to Lisa's room. Wet hands wrapped around the doorknob, but Joan couldn't get it to twist. She paused, checking to see if Brad heard her, but his soft sobs continued. Gulping, Joan wrenched the knob to the side, and finally the door opened. With one eye on Brad's room, Joan slipped behind Lisa's door, nestling herself against the shadowy corner. She was so scared she could faint at any moment. If Brad found her, he would never let her leave with Lisa. They'd fight and wake Marty, and if he came... Joan's mind went wild with worst-case scenarios. He'd hurt her many times, though he was careful not to leave bruises. His scars were unseen, but she bore them all the same. Perhaps the reason he never hit her was because she tried so hard to appease his pride. If he caught her kidnapping Lisa, it would give him every excuse to reign down the full extent of his wrath upon her. He'd make her pay.

Trembling, Joan forced herself to listen to the house: All she could hear was rain, Brad's quiet cries, and the distorted laughter from the TV. With a deep breath, she walked out of the corner and crept towards Lisa, who was fast asleep. Joan put down the pepper spray, pulled out her rain jacket and wrapped it around the sleeping girl.

God must have truly been on her side, because Lisa stayed asleep as Joan lifted her up._Thank you, God_, Joan thought, cradling Lisa against her chest before slipping out the room and past Brad, undetected. His sobs had quieted now, and she heard him sigh.

Marty was still snoring. With both hands holding Lisa still, Joan tiptoed down the stairs, trying desperately not to slip and fall, holding her breath the whole time. When her feet touched the ground, she nearly sighed in relief, but she caught herself. _Don't make a sound in Marty's presence_. If he woke up, she would die of fear.

She could barely feel her legs anymore; they felt frozen in terror, but Joan propelled them forwards till she was back in the kitchen where she'd sneaked in. Fear seized her as she realized now how poor her planning was: How could she put her socks and boots back on when both hands were holding Lisa? And where was the pepper spray?

Joan gasped when she remembered: The can was left upstairs, right next to Lisa's bed. _Shit!_ But she shook the thoughts away and stuck her cold feet in the rain boots anyway. It took a bit of squirming, but they consumed her feet again, albeit this time without socks, since she couldn't slip them back on while holding Lisa. Rainwater from her earlier trek now submerged her freezing toes. The walk home would be agonizing, but she couldn't afford to think about that. This body was worthless compared to the importance of her task. With a deep breath, Joan nudged the slippers and socks behind the trash can, praying they wouldn't draw attention.

A comedian on TV told a funny joke, and the screen burst with the audience's guffaws. Joan swallowed hard and pulled the door open, hoping the laughter hid the door's creaking.

The fresh smells of rain and dirt relieved Joan's frantic mind.

She breathed deeply while plodding forward, squishing the wet grass beneath her feet. The air was crisp and full of freedom. One hand pulled the hood of Lisa's bundle over her face, and Joan hunched over, low to the ground, to make sure the girl didn't wake up.

They were away from the house, now, heading down the path and back the way they came. In her muddy boots and dark, blue raincoat, Joan was a murky splotch upon the landscape. If Brad weren't sleeping, if he looked out his window, maybe the rain would obscure his vision and make him doubt if what he saw was a person or not. Maybe he'd go back to sleep.

Joan chanced a backwards look and saw that the windows were empty; there were no beady, black Armstrong eyes staring after her. She and Lisa were free. God was good, and he would guide her home. Her heart felt as light as a feather.

When the house was almost out of sight, Joan straightened up a bit and looked down at Lisa. She admired the soft, chubby cheeks, the peaceful look on her face, and, most of all, how soundly the girl slept.

Then a raindrop fell on her cheek, and Lisa's big, blue eyes flew open. She looked at Joan, looked at the dark and stormy skies, and cried.

"No, no!" Joan whispered, but the winds were against them. Lisa's loud, scared cries flew back towards the house, and Joan ran.

Her boots splashed through puddles and struggled through mud, but Joan rushed forward, breathing heavily under the strain. Rain dampened her vision and slowed her steps. The dead weight of her bag thudded against her back.

Marty was yelling in the distance. Joan's eyes burned with terrified tears, but she refused to give in. Instead she dropped her backpack and ran forwards, past the white picket fence that had splintered and peeled long ago, past the trees she and Brad used to run through with Lisa. Joan ran as fast as she could, but her legs were tiny and weak, and already her muscles burned with strain.

She could hear Marty behind her, now, and she ran faster, escaping the property, seeing other houses past her. Surely, if she got just a bit closer, the sleeping people would hear Lisa's screams and save them from Marty.

_Please, God, please, God, please, God—_

Then Marty caught her.

He gripped her hood and jerked it back, choking her. Joan fell into the dirt and tried to escape, but he blocked her path. Like a thoughtless animal, Joan ran back the way she came, towards the house, thinking nothing except _I need to get away, I can't let him catch me!_

But Marty pushed her, hard, and she fell to the ground, twisting her body to shield Lisa from the impact. Her back stung with pain, but she scrambled up, quickly.

Marty didn't look like a human anymore. He was a monster, twisted with rage. Joan had never seen anything like it. "You evil slut!" He yelled.

Then he stepped closer, and she tried to run, but he grabbed her braid and jerked her back. "I treated you good," Marty hissed. "I made it nice and gentle for you. And you pay me back by stealing my girl?"

Joan threw her foot back into his crotch, and he grunted in pain. She darted around him, dashing towards the houses. She made it a few feet, but Marty was too fast.

He grabbed Joan by the arm and dragged her towards the house, Lisa wailing and writhing against her chest. "Please stop!" Joan begged, but Marty pulled her hard, and the toddler tumbled from her grasp.

Lisa's screams joined the wet crack of knuckles against flesh.

Joan never saw where his fist came from, but suddenly her face throbbed in pain. The mud soaked her, clung to Marty's fists as he brought them down, again and again.

She shrieked. Convulsed. She tried to crawl away from the blows, but she couldn't move an inch. She could barely breathe, barely see anything through the bloody haze and cracked glasses.

The rain pounded down on her, washing the blood down her face until it stained her teeth and mingled with the mud on her skin. Lisa sobbed and cried, untouched by the onslaught but terrified. Her voice was so loud, she must have been right next to Joan. All Joan could think of was escaping with Lisa. She tried to reach a hand out towards the cries, but something huge and hard stomped down and her fingers splintered.

Joan howled, thrashed and writhed on the ground like a dying animal.

All she was aware of was the pain. There was only her screams and Lisa's horrified howls, the thunder and mud and sticky blood and a giant man cursing her as he broke her body.

He left nothing unravaged in his assault. He battered everything, from her stomach and head to her legs and arms. Joan thought she would die here, in the dirt and the rain, beaten to death for a fatal failure.

She almost wanted to die. Anything to stop the unbearable agony.

By now her glasses had fallen from her face and her eyes were swollen. Raindrops blurred her vision, and she thought she could see Lisa, stumbling over to her father and tugging at his pants.

Lisa, who had just learned to run, who barely spoke, screamed for Marty to stop. Her high, girlish, innocent voice was far too precious for the pain it held. A mop of wet, black hair clung to the back of her white nightgown, and although her hands were as small as a porcelain doll's, she beat them against her father's legs. She had no hope of stopping her beast of a father, but she was too young to realize her own bravery.

"Please, daddy, stop it!" She cried, again and again, her tears mixing with the rain that washed down her face.

Marty snatched his daughter from the mud, turning his back on the girl who bled into the soil. His feet sent shockwaves through her ears, slamming down onto the earth again and again as he returned to his shadowy home whose walls ran with rain.

Joan's body burned with pain. It was all she could think of; for once in her twelve years on this new, strange earth, her mind was wiped of all thoughts of the future. All she could think of was the twisting hurt electrifying her nerves. All she could see was blood.

The last sound she heard was a door snapping shut. Joan closed her eyes and bled into the soil of the Armstrong house, warming the dying grass as her life seeped into the earth.


	10. Brad V

Brad woke to screaming sirens.

The moon was a gleaming sickle in the sky against a dark backdrop of blue. When Brad peered out of the window, he saw cars tearing towards the house, blaring red lights. Underneath the sleepy sky, cops swarmed the house like an army of ants. Brad couldn't move. He thought he was dreaming.

Then, the door slammed downstairs, and Marty's shout ripped through the walls and froze Brad into place. Lisa rarely cried nowadays, but she must have sensed something was wrong. Her little feet thumped against the floor as she burst into Brad's room. "There are strangers here!" Before he could say anything, she ran over to him and clung to his legs, smearing mud over his pants.

It felt like a dream as policemen surged through the house, clicking handcuffs over dad's meaty wrists and dragging him away. Lisa was in Brad's arms as he stepped outside and watched it happen. Now the sky was lighter, and the sun peeked out over the horizon. Morning was a long way off, but golden light shot through the celestial blues and infused warm beams throughout the earth. Underneath the vibrant, waking world, dad was a screaming smear who writhed and swore at those around him.

A policeman asked a question, but all Brad could focus on was the way dad howled in pain when a policeman forced him into the backseat. Dad's head bounced off the car's top, dislodging his sunglasses so they sank in the mud below. Without the shadowy glass on his face, dad looked naked. Exposed. Those beady eyes were alien, too tiny for his fleshy face, and they gleamed with anger when they locked onto Brad. Before he could say anything, the car door slammed shut, enveloping him in a curtain of darkness.

A policeman obscured the vision, leaning down to look Brad in the eye. He was saying something, but all Brad could do was pinch himself. Surely it was a dream. A nightmare?

Brad saw the scene from miles above, like he was floating in the sky. The flashing car pulled away, leaving another dark police vehicle in front of the house. Dad's face was pressed against the tinted windows; his mouth twisted like it did when he yelled, but Brad heard nothing. A policeman placed a gentle hand on Brad's back, guided him into the house. The door slipped shut.

On that beautiful day, Brad and Lisa went away.

Everything was a blur. He remembered holding Lisa as he sat in the back of a police car, trying not to cry when he asked if he'd done something wrong. The officers' concerned eyes flickered to the rearview mirror, and they rushed to assure him he was alright. Dad was just being investigated, they said, and nothing was decided yet. Brad and Lisa went to a strange building where adults in lab coats looked them over and asked strange questions. "We're giving you a physical evaluation," a smiling man said. "Would you like a lollipop?"

Red cherry candy coated Brad's tongue when he glanced over at the doctor's notes. "Signs of physical trauma" was all he read before the man tilted his clipboard away and led him away.

He sat with Lisa in a quiet room with motivational posters, sucking on the lollipop while Lisa gurgled in his lap, her arms tightly wound around his neck. Initially, she was afraid of the doctor—afraid of any man she saw—but Brad had insisted on staying close. At one point, they insisted he leave the room, so he lurked outside with his ear pressed to the hard, wooden door.

He heard snippets, such as "signs of broken bones," "rampant drug use," and "possible neglect," but he couldn't understand most of what they were saying. Eventually she was returned to his arms, and then a stranger with a badge asked if they had any family nearby.

"Just my grandpa," Brad said. "But he's very far away."

Lisa curled closer to him, hiding her face in his neck. The detective crouched, getting on Brad's level. "Do you know where?"

Brad shook his head. "Can I go home now?"

He could not, it turned out; there were still officers investigating the home.

"Is my dad in trouble?" The detective gave a long-winded non-answer that only confused Brad, so he asked for a ride to Rick's house instead. Once he explained that Rick was a close friend with a nice family, he and his sister got to ride in the cop car again. He leaned back in the seat, sighing deeply, looking forward to a familiar face after the swarm of strangers. Lisa followed his lead and relaxed against his chest before curiosity had her peering around the car. She ran a tiny hand over the barrier between the front and backseat, and the cop in the passenger's seat smiled.

"Hello there," he said, slipping his finger through the barrier.

"Hello, sir," Lisa said, her squeaky voice mimicking the authoritative tones she overheard earlier. She grabbed his finger and gave it a dignified shake, just like the handshakes she'd seen earlier when she and Brad sat in countless waiting rooms. Seeing her sweet, childish face try to sound professional made the officers laugh, and Brad cracked a smile, too.

Rick's parents gasped when they opened the door. The policemen said something that made them step aside, and Brad hurried into the house in search of his friend. Rick woke to an intense face staring at him, and he flinched so badly he nearly fell off his bed.

"Holy smokes, dude! What are you doing here?" He saw Lisa and blinked. "And why is _she_ here?"

Brad shrugged. "I have no clue. There are cops downstairs."

Rick's blue eyes boggled. "What? Show me!"

Their footsteps thundered down the upstairs hall, and they pushed their heads against the columns at the side of the stairs. In the living room, Rick's parents sat at one couch across from the officers; all the adults were speaking in low, serious tones.

"What are they saying?" Rick whispered. The boys sat on the stairs, unwilling to interrupt the mysterious conversation.

"Maybe something about my dad," Brad murmured. "They took him away this morning."

"For what?"

"I don't know, but they looked us over and drove him to who-knows-where."

Rick rubbed his forehead. "Aw, geez, man. I wonder what happened…"

Eventually the cops left, but not before ruffling his hair and assuring him they'd return. Brad wasn't sure if he wanted that, but he was soon distracted by breakfast, courtesy of Rick's two, startled parents. They kept giving him nervous looks, patting him on the shoulder and assuring him he would be okay. It wasn't convincing, but as always, Brad appreciated their kindness. More than that, he was grateful for the breakfast of bacon, ham and toast, which they ate in near-silence below a large, golden cross on the wall.

"This is great," he said after a few moments. "I've never had this at home."

Rick's parents looked at each other nervously. "That's wonderful, dear," Mrs. Weeks said, leaning over to pat his hand. She eyed the squirming girl on his lap.

"Yeah, you're always welcome here, bucko," Mr. Weeks added.

Lisa squirmed in his lap, reaching for the orange juice, but Brad pushed it out of her grasp and tried to give her some eggs instead. She slapped his hand away, and the fork clattered to the floor. "I'm sorry," Brad said, stepping back to pick it up, but Mrs. Weeks walked over.

"That's okay, sweetie," she said. "Why don't I hold Lisa for a while?"

"Um, I'm not sure about that—"

But Lisa was lifted into the air and held against the soft white cotton of Mrs. Weeks' shirt. Lisa pushed against the woman's chest for a better view of the new person holding her. Babbling something Brad couldn't make out, Lisa eyed the woman's sparkly necklace, her long, black hair, and the pale blue eyes Rick had inherited. Then Lisa said something Brad _could _understand: "Are you my mom?"

Mrs. Weeks almost cried. "Oh, my!" She hugged the little girl close to her chest, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. "What a sweetheart!"

Mr. Weeks choked on his milk and pounded his fist into his chest, and Rick laughed. Brad chuckled, meeting eyes with his friend, and for a moment, he wondered if this could be his future. Maybe every morning would be like this; he foresaw endless breakfasts with drinks, meats, and people who smiled in his direction. Brad liked the idea.

Unfortunately, it was not to be.

The police made good on their promise to return. Brad was taken back and asked all manner of strange questions, some of which he couldn't understand. Then he'd be taken to different rooms where people would ask him the same questions reworded. People poked and prodded and took careful note of his bruises.

He was driven away and put to bed in a room with several other children, who traded scary rumors about foster parents and horrible things to come. The first night he could barely sleep, tormented by thoughts of Lisa going away to a new family, forever torn from his life. There was a large playground with a sandbox, and he watched as Lisa ran around and built misshapen castles.

"Where's daddy?" She'd ask, day after day. Brad always said he didn't know, but she never stopped asking until a man came to pick them up.

They were playing in the sandbox when one of the adults called for them, saying they would be leaving today and to pack their things. Brad's heart pounded the entire time he got ready. Was dad here? Did the police let him go? Part of him wanted to go home, back to his bed, but another part was terrified of seeing that horrible, broken house, returning to a life of walking on eggshells and dodging punches.

He held Lisa's hand tightly as they walked to the meeting room. Lisa jerked her hand out of his and ran forward. "Daddy, is that you?"

"_Grandpa?_" Brad was dumbfounded; here was a man he'd dreamed about for years, who had given him hope and love, and who he never thought he would see again. Dad swore up and down, "That man is as good as dead. You ain't seeing him ever again," but he was here, in flesh and blood, warm to the touch and holding him tight.

"Hey there, little man," Grandpa whispered. "I missed you."

Brad wept.

They were on the ground now, knees pressed against the cold linoleum floor, but it didn't matter. All Brad knew was that this was real, and it was wonderful. Lisa hugged them too, wiggling between them and wiping their faces, far too young to understand why they were weeping.

Grandpa took them home to his small, yellow home, which had bright green grass and a beautiful garden. Vivid vines crawled up the house, and a row of sunflowers towered over the white picket fences.

In the backyard, Grandpa had rigged up a training area, complete with push-up bars and a punching bag. Just as Brad had imagined, he was proud to hear his grandson had been teaching the Armstrong style.

"That's my boy!" He said, ruffling Brad's hair. "I always knew you had a knack for it. Even when you were five, you kicked like lightning. If only your father hadn't turned his back on tradition…"

Grandpa paused, then. Although he and Marty were estranged—and that was putting it lightly—he was ashamed to have a son who was sitting in jail on multiple counts of child and drug abuse. He never said anything about his feelings in front of Brad, but he shared them with his visiting friends in late-night whispers. "I can't believe it. _Methamphetamine,_ they said! Found it in the kitchen sink, barely even hidden behind the pipes. And they found crack cocaine in little Lisa's room, right under the crib. Jesus Christ."

"The kids are safe now. They're with you," a friend said, his voice soft and slow.

Brad, who had been hiding in the hall, went back to his room and thought about it in bed. He had no idea dad had been doing drugs—he thought dad just drank beer—but that explained why dad had been taken away, why they hadn't seen him. Sure, Grandpa had asked, cautiously, if Brad wanted to meet him again, but he swore up and down he did not.

As terrible as it was, what had happened was for the best. Sometimes Brad was upset that his friends were so far away, and he wished he could go back to Rick's house and tell him everything that happened, but he was adjusting to life in a new town, and he was starting to make friends.

Still, he wrote letters to Rick and asked him to keep their friends up-to-date on how they were doing.

_Dear Rick, _his most recent letter read.

_Things have been okay. Life here is mostly uneventful, except for my birthday party today._

_Grandpa got me a lot of cool presents. My friends and I played games and hit a pinata. Lisa hit it so hard she broke it. There was lots of great candy and food. You should have seen it._

Brad paused and wondered if he should have ended it there, but Rick was always so descriptive in his letters that Brad figured he should add some detail.

_She was proud of herself. Tried to steal everything from me, but Grandpa stopped her. Lisa pouted, but she was OK when the cake came out. Chocolate._

Brad took a deep breath. His handwriting was so large and messy he was nearing the bottom of the page. _We're both doing good. Lisa still talks about dad sometimes, but she's so happy here I think she's starting to forget. Which is better. She's doing so well I'm almost jealous. She adjusted to living here easier than I did, but whatever._

He shouldn't leave the letter on that note. Rick was always pushing him to be more positive, whether it was through his enthusiastic use of exclamation marks or his loud, excited state when they talked on the phone.

_Everything's going well over here. Hope you and everyone else is okay. I miss you guys._

_Best,_

_Brad_


	11. Unknown

"Well. Things didn't quite go according to plan, did they?"

"...What...what are you doing here?"

"Easy there, sweetheart. Don't strain yourself."

"You're not supposed to be here."

"Nobody stopped me. I have every right to come and visit my favorite student. Don't tell me you've lost interest in our little arrangement?"

"No..."

"Good, good. That would have been a disappointment... and you know how I handle disappointments."

"Yes, but... why are you here? I can't move. I can't be useful to you this way."

"Don't be stupid. I know you're worthless in your current state, and you'll likely be worthless for a long time... but your brain will be an asset to my research."

"Thank you... I'll be sure to work hard and learn as much as I can to serve you, and—"

"I don't trust you to play any part in my work. I simply mean to study you."

"But... I know a lot about Olathe. I-I've spent my whole life studying, preparing for what's to come. I—"

"You're an ignorant hick who has yet to prove a thing. You can't expect me to take your claims at face value."

"What? You already did! You gave me—"

"Shut up. Do you want the nurses to hear you?"

"No, but…you said you believed me. Why would you give me those… 'gifts' if you didn't trust me?"

"Simple. It was a back-up plan, just in case you went back on your word."

"What?!"

"I have recorded audio of you asking me for those so-called 'gifts' to plant in someone else's house. According to the news, it worked. Wouldn't it be a shame if this audio were leaked? You'd be outed as responsible for sending an innocent man to prison, breaking apart a happy family."

"You would never do that! You're the one who gave me the 'gifts.' If you ratted me out, I'd rat you out as well. We'd both go down together!"

"You must have a low opinion of me. I've already prepared for your untrustworthiness. Did you know that one of your closest associates is the son of a dealer? If you're going to threaten me, you should first be more mindful of who you spend your time with…"

"Are you talking about…Sticky? I—there's no way you could pin that on him or his dad. I've never even met Mr. Angoneli. How could you possibly frame him as the source of those… 'gifts'?"

"You shouldn't lie to me, darling."

"What…?"

"I have eyes on you. I know you've met him. You got quite…_close_, didn't you?"

"…Shut up. Shut up! You're lying!"

"You'd better lower your voice if you don't want the doctor to come."

"Leave me alone! Get out of here!"

"Keep acting like this, and I'll have evidence of your mental instability. When the doctor comes, he'll see you acting hysterical. Even if he takes your side, I already recorded your manic ramblings about past lives and conspiracies and the apocalypse. Keep crying, and I'll have you thrown into a mental institution. Then you won't be of use to _anyone_, least of all me."

"You're disgusting."

"And you… you're just a tool who will play a miniscule role in this world's future, an ant with delusions of grandeur. But you've stopped crying, so at least you're not a _complete_ fool. I'm glad. I was worried for a moment that my time might have been wasted…"

"I already told you: I keep my word. And I _will _change the future. I'll prove you wrong."

"If you hope to ever work for me, instead of being a mindless lab rat, you'd better work on your manners. I don't accept disrespect from my inferiors."

"…I'm sorry. I promise…I'll serve you well."

"We'll see about that. Oh, and remember..."

"_Ow!_"

"Keep your mouth shut."

"I will…just…stop it! You're hurting me!"

"Smile. The doctor will arrive soon, and we don't want him suspecting anything, do we?"

"N-no..."

"No, _what?_"

"No, sir."

"Good…you follow instructions well. Keep it up, and you may yet prove your worth."

"Yes…sir."

"That's the spirit."

* * *

**END OF PART ONE**


	12. Lisa I

When Lisa first met Dad, her heart was as glad as birds.

He sat on the bus bench, his small, dark eyes anxiously scanning the windows. Although he looked slightly different from Grandpa's photos, Lisa recognized him immediately. Overwhelmed with excitement, she bounced in her seat and pressed her face against the window. When Dad found her, he lit up like a firework.

Dad was everything she hoped for. He wore a neat, gray suit, his hair freshly combed and his cheeks red with joy. He looked cool and professional, just like the dads who came to pick up their kids after school. No longer would she be the odd one out, the weird girl with the dead mom and imprisoned dad. Now, she would have a dad in her life, and she grinned at the thought.

When the bus finally lurched to a stop, Lisa flew to the front, pushing away the protesting passengers. Dad clamored to the curb, meeting her eyes through the bus door. Only glass stood between them now.

For the first time in her life, someone was excited to see her. Lisa's heart pounded in excitement. _Will he like me? Will he hate me? I hope he's nice!_

The minute the door swung open, Lisa leapt from the top of the stairs, straight into Dad's arms. "I'm so happy to meet you!"

He laughed, and it was a wonderful sound because it was so rare — Grandpa and Brad never laughed — and he said nice things and told her how much she looked like her mother, how happy he was to see her. "Now _that's _a first impression!" He said, holding her tightly. They didn't care a whit for the people rushing around them.

The eight years they had been apart faded when they spoke. They chattered all the way home like old friends, and Lisa was so happy she barely noticed the way his old, chipped car constantly groaned and slowed. She couldn't care less about how dilapidated and broken-down the Armstrong house looked. All she could think about was that she was finally a normal girl: She had a dad who loved her, and they would spend all summer together.

Everything was right in the world.

* * *

Two years later, Lisa is close to committing murder.

She used to love compliments; now, she wants to bite the hands off anyone who calls her pretty. The word makes her stomach ripple in revulsion.

Every time He calls her pretty, she wants to scream, but she can't. Screaming gets you beaten. It gets you bruised, sore, worthless, "whore."

(She still doesn't know what "whore" means, but just the sound of it makes her freeze, rabid fear ripping at her brain matter, till there's just her bare little lizard brain, crawling away to hang from the ceiling, watching what happens to her discarded body while she lingers in the angel's realm.

She wishes she could stay there, away from her skin, but every time He's done, that lizard slips back into her skull and rearranges her mind so she can move again, slow and aching everywhere.)

She hates Him, but she loves Him, too. He's everything she wanted, but He's too much.

Is this what other dads do? Is this love?

He says it's normal, but it feels wrong. _Maybe it's because I didn't grow up with him,_ she thinks. _Maybe I'm just abnormal._

But is it normal to dream about snakes slithering inside of her, devouring her from the inside out? Is it normal to look at your father with just as much hate as love, to dread summer every year?

Maybe Grandpa is right, and she's a Bad Girl. She feels dirty and disgusting, inside and out.

Brad's far away, but she sits on his old bed sometimes and looks out his window, wishing he would save her. Grandpa will never come — he'd rather die than see his son again — and he hates her for coming here in the first place.

But Brad? _Brad_ should have noticed when she came home the first time. She wouldn't talk for days. At first, he was worried, but Grandpa's scoff sold him a lie. "She's just sulking 'cause she wanted to stay."

It was _so wrong _that a snake coiled around her throat and silenced her. She wanted to say he was wrong, but she couldn't speak a word. No matter how much she struggled, her lips couldn't part. She looked at her brother desperately, imploring him to take her side, but Brad _believed _him. He looked at her, betrayed — didn't even wait for the snake to go away.

It never did. Whenever she tries to speak about what had happened, the snake kills her voice. It grows stronger, too, as time passes.

The worst part is _she asked for this._

It's all her fault.

* * *

"Grandpa, is dad out of prison now?"

"Yes."

"For how long?"

"…A few weeks."

"Why didn't anyone tell me?!"

"You didn't need to know."

"Didn't need to know? He's my _dad!_"

"You're just a kid. You're not old enough to understand—"

"I understand that everyone else knows their dad, and I've never even met mine!"

"You met him before, when you were a baby. Your brother said he used to hurt you."

"That's not fair! If he's out of prison, then he learned his lesson, right? He must have changed. I know it!"

"Nobody changes that much, Lisa."

"If you loved me, you would let me meet him."

"Stop with the manipulation! You're not meeting him, and that's final."

"I hate you."

"…What?"

"I hate you. I hate you! I HATE YOU!"

* * *

In the end, Lisa got her way — but she was too weak to deal with the consequences.

After nightfall, she creeps through the house, quiet as a mouse, slips a knife into her hand, stands over the sleeping man…

… and does nothing.

She can't bring herself to do it. The knife hovers over Dad's sleeping heart; this is her one shot at salvation, but the same snake that bites her tongue now weighs her hands down, till the blade clatters on the floor and she crumples under the weight of her own worthlessness.

_I'm a good-for-nothing whore. _

Lisa takes a shuddering breath and goes upstairs. She packs her things to go home early. It's only June; She's been here a week — thought, _maybe things will be different this time _— but now she slithers past the walls and through the front door. Crisp air means she's free.

"I'm sorry, but you can't get on without a ticket," the bus driver says. "You have to go, little girl."

Begging does nothing; people only stare. Gas from the bus clouds her nostrils as her hope drives away, but Lisa won't give up. She slips stolen coins into a payphone, the rings as loud at her heartbeat.

"What?" Grandpa's familiar voice cracks through the phone, ragged from a lifetime of whiskey and cigarettes.

"I want to go home."

"Lisa? Is that you?" He sighs, and he's probably rubbing his temples as he always does when she asks too much of him. "What the hell happened?"

The snake holds her tongue hostage.

"Why are you calling me?"

"…I want to go home. Please, come and get me."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing," she whispers.

"Stop crying. You can't just call me up in the middle of the night and ask me to drive over."

"Please, Grandpa, come and get me. I don't want to be here anymore!"

"Do you know how far away I am? Do you know how long it would take me to get there? You wanted this!"

"I don't want it anymore."

"Do you know how hard it was to arrange? How _angry _your father was when I first called him?" He didn't wait for a response. "The last time I saw your father, he tried to kill me. He already threatened to sue me for custody. This is the only reason we haven't gone to the courts."

"But—"

"You're lucky he agreed to this. If you back out now, do you know what could happen?"

"Grandpa, _please_."

"No. I'll see you in August, but until then, you need to sort out whatever problems you're having."

"I can't."

"Are you going to tell me what happened?"

Lisa bites her wet, trembling lip.

"Fine. Be like that. You know, maybe this is good for you. You can't just leave at the first sign of trouble. You have to take responsibility for your actions. Do you understand?"

The phone slams into the side of the booth.

"…Lisa?"

* * *

Dad's doing It again.

Alcohol breath steamrolls her skin, the sickening smell pricking her pores. No matter how "gentle" he is, it always hurts like a hot iron sizzling her innards.

"Stop crying," Dad grunts. "I know you like it."

Afterwards, she kneels in the thick earth of the woods and heaves up her breakfast. Warped sausage and distorted eggs spurt from her cracked lips, and she gags till there's nothing more to give.

Screaming doesn't change anything, but she feels better flying through the trees, shrieking bloody murder so loudly birds fly from their nests. _Fly away, little birds. _She hates them, envies them, wishes she had rocks.

Dirt cloaks her filthy clothes when she writhes and groans on the ground. Maybe it will hide the smell of other stains, hide her shame from the glaring red eye in the sky.

A shadow shields her from the hateful glare.

"A-are you okay?"

A boy blocks out the sun, but she can't see his face. "Do I fucking _look_ okay?"

He gasps. "You c-can't say that! That's a b-bad word."

"If I'm getting fucked," she rasps, "I can say the word."

The boy flinches. Now she can see him better. _Fuck your pitying eyes,_ she wants to say, but the delicate flower might faint.

"…Wh-what does that word mean, anyway?"

"Ask your parents."

There's silence; he must have left. Then: "I don't have any parents."

"Me neither." Lisa sits up, stares into those dumb, frightened eyes.

"B-b-but…Don't you have a d-dad…?" He jumps at her glare, wringing his hands. "I-I just overheard you…saying s-something about your d—"

"My dad isn't really my dad."

"How so?"

"He's evil."

"Oh." Pause. "I'm sure he's n-not _so_ bad. I mean—"

Rage devours the world. For a moment, Lisa can only see red. The boy dodges her first fist, but the second knocks him in the eye, and he yelps. It feels _good, _and she thirsts for the stinging of her hand against flesh, but he flees, quick as a rabbit.

_Coward_. Lisa spits on the ground, but she hopes to see him again. Her hands twitch.

* * *

When summer shriveled up like dying autumn leaves, Lisa left to return home.

Her bag was painfully heavy, but when Dad offered to carry it back to the station, she shook her head so hard her brain rattled in her skull.

"Suit yourself, beautiful." Dad ruffled her hair, caressed it with lingering hands. His eyes fell upon her golden pendant on its black string, a treasure from her mother. "I swear, you look more like her every day. Did I ever tell you we met back in high school? That's coming up for you soon, isn't it?"

"I can't miss my bus."

"Okay, but before you leave, give daddy a kiss."

Lisa puked onto the white flowers once the front door closed, and bile burned in the back of her throat all the way to the bus station.

So mom and dad met in high school. That was four years away. Lisa hoped she didn't meet her future husband there. She didn't want to get pregnant and drop out and die from a bottle of pills.

She shivered at the thought, which was probably why a man tried to kidnap her.

Once she neared the bus station, a hand snatched at her arm. The man with the firm grasp smiled sweetly to dispel suspicion from nearby passengers, but Lisa recognized trouble in his hungry gaze. "Hey there, sweetie!" He talked to her like a five-year-old. "It's time to go home. Your mom wanted me to come pick you up."

Lisa gaped at him. Her _mom? _Really? Her long-dead mom rose six feet from the grave to give this pervert a message? Furious, she yelled so loudly every head snapped towards them: "Leave me alone, you evil bastard!"

She tore away and jumped onto the bus.

"Are you okay?" The driver asked.

"No." Lisa pointed. "That man tried to kidnap me."

"_What?!_" He jumped up, but the pervert scuttled away like an insect, too fast to catch. "Jesus Christ. Little girl, are you sure you're okay?"

Lisa shrugged, unsure of what to say. Rage simmered in her stomach, and she was afraid of throwing up again. She must have looked sick, because the man gave her a water bottle and introduced himself as Hardy Hernandez. "If you ever need anything, let me know."

"Thank you."

Passengers' eyes cut her as she struggled down the thin aisle. They were judging her for screaming, but she kept her head down. Dark, black bangs shielded her from the useless bastards until she found her spot. (_None of them would have done a thing if I were kidnapped. None of them cares about me. To them, I'm just a show, a sideshow freak to stare at_.)

She liked sitting in the very back; it was the best seat for scenery. Olathe's rolling hills and sparkling waterfalls eased her mind during the rides home. The first couple of days back were always hard. Not only did she have to get ready for school, but she had to tiptoe around Brad and Grandpa's anger. They were still mad at her for begging to go see her father, for failing to believe their stories about him.

Now she was paying for it.

"How was it?" Grandpa had asked after the first summer she went away.

The snake stilled her tongue, so she shrugged. "Why didn't you come pick me up? I had to ride on the bus, all by myself, for hours."

"And see _him_ again?" Grandpa spat. "Never. If you want to see your father, you'll do it alone. I'll never lay eyes on that man again."

Later that day, she knocked Brad's soda over at dinnertime. "I'm sorry!"

"Don't be sorry," Grandpa said. "Go clean the mess."

"But shouldn't Brad help me, too? It was his soda!"

"No. You're the one who knocked it over. It was your fault."

Lisa froze. Dad had said that, too.

_"It was your fault. You're so beautiful, I just couldn't help myself." _

"LISA!" She jumped. "Stop standing there like an idiot and clean up your damn mess!"

"But—"

"No. Take responsibility for what you've done!"

The words stuck with her. Grandpa was a calm man, but she always seemed to make him mad. He never hit her — only yelled when she did bad things — but his disappointment was soul-crushing.

How could she ever tell him about summer? She was the one who hounded him to let her go, who screamed in his face till he yielded. She was the one who went back the next summer, hoping Dad would change, that It had been a fluke. She was nothing more than a worthless, stupid slut, and Grandpa would be so mad at her if he knew about her failure.

Lisa would rather die than hear him say, "I told you so. It was all your fault."

And now strangers wanted her. _Why does this happen to me? _Lisa fought the tears, pressing her face against the glass as the blurry scenery buzzed by. _What's wrong with me? _She rubbed her fist against her eyes. _Can men just look at me and know what I am? _

With her head in her hands, Lisa was blind to the world. She hadn't noticed the bright boy beside her until he tapped her shoulder. "Hi!" Lisa jumped, bonking her head against the glass. "Oh, geez, I'm sorry about that!"

He looked like a human puppy, with a blonde bowl cut and a bright, red shirt with golden sunflowers. Hints of blue eyes peeked out beneath his heavy bangs, and full, red lips twisted into an eager smile. "Hey, I just wanted to tell you, what you did back there was kinda cool."

Lisa looked down, hoping he didn't notice the wetness in her eyes. "Y'know," he went on, "when you yelled at that creep and called him the b-word? That freaked my parents out, but I really liked it. It was badass, and—"

"Just say 'bastard.'"

He blinked. "Oh, uh, I'm not allowed to say the b-word—"

"But you can say 'badass?'"

"Hey, those words are totally different. 'Ass' can also mean donkey, so with 'badass,' you can at least _try_ to argue your innocence. Not so with—" Here he leaned over the aisle, peering for his parents. When he saw no suspicious heads turned their way, he leaned in and whispered, "'_Bastard.'"_

Lisa couldn't help but snicker. The boy's dark blue eyes sparkled, and he went on: "Now, y'see, I could _maybe _try to argue that I'm talking about illegitimate children when I say—" He whipped his head around to check for eavesdroppers, but this time he did it so dramatically his golden hair whipped around like a dog shaking off water. "'_Bastard.'_ But I don't think I could make a good argument, y'know?"

Now Lisa laughed out loud. "Stop that!" She gave him a light push. "No one's listening to us!"

He grinned. "You have no idea. I swear, my parents have the best ears ever. One time, I was pissed that my mom had yelled at me, so I was muttering to myself in my room upstairs, and I called her a bitch, and even though she was outside, she stormed back in and—"

"You're lying. There's no way she heard you from that far away!"

"I swear on her life!" The boy made the sign of the cross and stuck his hand up like he was swearing on the Bible. "She stomped up the stairs and into my room, and she yelled—" Now he spoke in a high, witchy voice, "'Bernard Buttfart, did you just call me a _bitch_?' And I had to go, 'No, ma, I swear, I said ditch!' And she crosses her arms and goes, 'Why did you say ditch?' And I go, 'Wait, no, um, I mean, I said switch!' And she says, 'Oh, so you were talking about switches, huh?' And I finally just say, 'Listen ma, I'll say whatever I need to say to avoid an ass whooping!'"

Lisa laughed again. "_Did_ she wind up 'whooping your ass?'"

"Nope! I made her laugh, which is good, 'cause it's kinda hard to hit someone when you're too busy laughing." He leaned back in his seat and smiled at her. "I'm glad I could've made you laugh. You looked a little upset earlier. At first, I was afraid you might have yelled at me."

"I only yell at people who make me angry. You're nice, so you don't have to worry." Lisa leaned in to whisper, and he shivered when she spoke: "But if you weren't so nice, I'm afraid I'd have to…_whoop your ass._"

Bernard laughed like a dolphin, and the sound was so funny Lisa joined in. They made such a ruckus that the people in the next aisle over _shhh_ed them. They giggled and apologized, but a few minutes later, they were off on some other story and laughing so hard their faces were red. Lisa had never met anyone like him. By the time the bus stopped, her cheeks ached from smiling.

"Well, this is my stop. Are you coming off, too?" He looked at her hopefully.

"No." Disappointment washed over her. She'd rather leave with her sweet new friend than return to her dark, somber home. "I'm a few cities away, but I'll get there in about an hour."

He opened his mouth to speak, but his parents called him away. "I gotta go now, but it was cool to meet you. I hope we can see each other again."

"I hope so, too." The warmth in her voice surprised her, and she shared a smile with Bernard that lasted a moment too long. A hot sensation climbed up Lisa's face as she watched him leave.

When the bus rumbled back to life, Lisa was unnerved by its silence. She'd been speaking with her new friend for hours, but time had flown by in his presence. Outside, a blanket of darkness repainted the world; the bright green fields she admired earlier offered only a bleak palette that made her sigh and shut her eyes. The window glass was cool against her cheek.

"Miss? Time to wake up."

Lisa jerked awake to find Hardy Hernandez standing by her seat. "This is your stop, right?" He smiled apologetically.

"Yeah," she murmured, rubbing her eyes. "Sorry."

"That's all right. Here, let me help you." He lifted her bags in the air, and Lisa stepped after him. By now, the rows were nearly emptied of people. Soon, the bus would reach the end of the line. "So, you make this ride every year?"

Lisa blinked. "Uh-huh. How do you know?"

He chuckled. "I heard you and your friend talking. You were loud."

"Sorry." Her cheeks burned.

"Don't be. It's good to hear kids laughing. Reminds me of my boys, back at home. They're around your age, you know?" Lisa said nothing, so he went on: "I'm surprised your parents let you go alone! You must be pretty responsible."

_Grandpa would disagree with you, _she thought bitterly. "Thank you," she said instead.

"Still, I'm glad you had someone to talk with. How quickly you made friends! You must be the most popular girl in school, huh?"

"…Not really." It was the understatement of the century. Still, as the friendly driver waved goodbye and she walked through the darkened neighborhood, she felt strangely optimistic. She'd made two friends in one day. Maybe this was a good omen for the coming year, and she would finally enjoy school.


	13. Lisa II

"You little thief."

Pain rang in Lisa's ears as her head slammed against lockers.

"What the fuck did you think you were doing, flirting with my boyfriend?"

"I was just _talking—"_

"Shut up, bitch!"

A claw smacked her mouth shut, smearing blood and lipstick over her face. Lisa narrowed her eyes at the three girls who cornered her. They were in a secluded part of school; no one would save her — but no one would see if she defended herself, either.

"_Next time I see you," the principal said, "you're getting suspended. _"

She took in a shuddering breath and lowered her stance. Their empty heads thought she was being submissive, making herself look smaller, and they sneered. "You're going to listen to me," one of the girls said, stepping forward so their noses touched.

"_Try to talk your way out of fights first," Grandpa said. "Violence shouldn't be your first response."_

"If I ever see your ugly ass try to take what's mine again, I'll beat you up." Lisa stared at her, weighing her options. Then a hand wrapped around her mother's pendant. "In fact, why don't I take something of yours?"

Lisa pounced. She screamed like an animal as she shoved the girl away and smacked her to the ground. Another girl came forward, but a low kick sent her tumbling. When the last one tried to flee, Lisa snatched her long ponytail and ripped out a fistful of hair. She beat them until her knuckles ached and kicked them until their howls attracted teachers.

It felt _good_. So good Lisa ran through the halls with a smile on her face, not caring about her blood-stained teeth. She fled from the shouts and threats, darting down the streets until she was home safe in her bed, clutching her pillow and rolling around the blankets, high on elation and laughing like crazy.

Grandpa raged when the school called him; he locked her bedroom door and said she'd spend the suspended week inside, but Lisa couldn't care. She had kept her mother's necklace and defended herself with the Armstrong style. She only wished she'd hurt the girls even more.

* * *

Anger management failed.

"I give up," the psychiatrist said, and Lisa was glad to see him go. How could she miss a man who had taken one glance at her wrists and claimed she did it for _attention?_ He was an arrogant bastard who talked down to her and pressured her into group therapy. As if she was going to tell strangers why she fought and cut and purged into toilets. It was none of their business. It calmed her down and made her happy. What was wrong with that? Why did they need to know?

"I don't know what to do with you." Grandpa sat at the edge of her bed, his dark face drawn with stress. The heavy lines around his eyes furrowed as he looked at her. If Lisa were a better person, she would feel guilty for making him upset, but Lisa was a bad girl and a selfish bitch who couldn't bring herself to care. Even Brad could barely stand her anymore. She ruined everything she touched.

"Lisa…" Grandpa rubbed his temples, looking around her room as if her face pained him. Butterfly stickers crawled up the side of her walls, orange and black wings spread in flight. Art supplies littered her desk, its wood stained with old paint splotches and colorful smudges from pens and markers. Atop her small, white dresser, a mismatched jumble of trinkets and jewelry tangled together in impenetrable knots.

Previously, the room's walls were stark white. Now, they were painted in a pale, pastel shade of pink—even though Lisa's favorite color was green. It had been grandpa's idea, which he got from some news article about pink rooms calming down prisoners. "So, I seem like a violent criminal to you?" Lisa joked, but Grandpa's look was sobering.

Brad had helped him paint the room, and after enough cajoling, Lisa was allowed to pick up a roll and start slathering the walls as well. The color did nothing to calm her down, and the fresh paint smell was terrible, but it was nice, quietly working with her family to get a task done. She wished they could do it more often, but Brad was off working and had bought his own place, and Grandpa wasn't any fun to be around when Brad was away. When she was alone with Grandpa, all he did was lecture her non-stop about how she needed to shape up and be better.

"I've tried everything I could," he said. "I think…there's nothing more I can do for you."

"What are you saying?"

"Your father and I have been talking—"

She jumped up. "No, you haven't! You _never_ talk!"

"Lisa, you are more important than any disagreements we have. Can't you see we're concerned about you?"

"I'm fine! There's nothing wrong with me!"

He sighed and shook his head. "We've decided that you'll move back to your dad's home. You'll have a fresh new start there: a new school, a new town, hopefully new friends—"

"I won't do it!" She yelled. "I'm not going back there! You can't make me!"

"SHUT UP!" Grandpa's voice washed over her, louder than a lion's roar. Her eyes went as wide as saucers. Grandpa's face was dark with shadows, and he breathed heavily, more animal than man. Lisa's heart slammed against her chest so hard it almost burst.

After a few minutes, he took a deep breath and scowled at her. "It's been decided. Pack your things. We're leaving tomorrow morning."

* * *

Lisa __did__ pack her things—but she left long before the morning sun lit up the earth.

Instead, she slipped out under the cover of darkness, her heavy backpack full of clothes, water bottles, and medicine. She'd run away enough times to know what to bring; last time she only brought chips and a candy bar. Now, she brought granola bars and sunscreen, along with an extra pair of shoes.

There were no friends whose couches she could crash at. She was all alone. It was terrifying, but there was something strangely freeing about walking through a slumbering world. Above her, the sky was dark blue and speckled with shining stars. There wasn't a single light in the neighborhood, and all she could hear was the faint chorus of crickets.

__I can do anything I want, __she thought. __I'm free.__

She'd emptied Grandpa's wallet, but it wasn't enough to buy anything life-changing. Endless opportunities unfolded before her; she wasn't sure where to start. After 30 minutes of walking aimlessly, she decided to go as far away as possible.

Her feet carried her to that familiar bus stop, where she bought a ticket from the machine. Her destination was a city she'd never been to before, but it was the farthest place she could afford. As she waited on the cold, metal bench, she rubbed her tender wrists. Last night, she'd been so overwhelmed she hurt herself, unable to think straight under the suffocating weight of her future. Only after red rivers trickled down her hands could she catch her breath and clear her mind. That was how she got this idea: hunched over in her corner, hyperventilating, and scarring herself. Maybe she truly __was__ sick, but there was no help she'd get from her father.

Plenty of sick people survived in the world. Some of the girls at school taunted her, saying, "You're not special," but Lisa reinterpreted the words, transforming them into a calming motto. __I'm not special__ meant __Surely someone else has been through this. I can't be the only one. I'm not that special. And if other people have gone through this and survived, then so can I. __It gave her hope that she would be okay.

She had bandaged up her wrists, hissing at the pain, before packing. Now, she rested her chin on her knees and waited until the 5 a.m. bus rolled up. The driver was an unfamiliar face; the car's metal entrails were empty of life. Content, Lisa moved to the backseat and fell into a fitful sleep. Every time she opened her eyes, there were more heads filling the bus, lit up by a world that gradually shifted from dark blue to light azure.

Fluffy clouds drifted across the peaceful sky, and Lisa filled her thoughts with her next steps. First, she should track down a good place to sleep. Maybe she could find a nice, secluded spot in a local park, or perhaps she could sneak into a library or café and sleep behind some furniture after closing time. It was a far-fetched idea, but she was thin and good at making herself small; maybe the employees wouldn't find her. Anything would be better than sleeping out in the open, where wolves or worse could find you.

She spent countless hours sitting on the bus. Eventually she grew so bored that she berated herself for not bringing a book. Instead, she peered through the aisles to people-watch. There were some interesting conversations, but mostly she tried to imagine where people were going. A man in a business suit with a briefcase could be on his way to an important meeting—or maybe just a cheese convention. A woman with a green dress and a whining child could be on her way to church or a theme park. An old couple who whispered to one another might be coming home from a long, relaxing trip to Fiji. On and on her mind went, until it bled dry.

When she was around 80 miles from home, the bus lurched to a stop and a new driver took over. People poured out into their new destination, a beautiful town by the sea. Lisa was one of nearly ten people left on the bus, and when she saw the new driver's face, she scuttled to an emptied spot in the front.

"Mr. Hernandez?"

The man burst into a sunny grin. "If it isn't Miss Independent! I wasn't expecting to see you until summer. What's got you all the way out here?"

Lisa settled into the front seat, meeting his eyes in the rear-view mirror. "I'm off to visit family." The lie slipped off her tongue, smooth as butter. "But they're all the way over in Marble."

"Geez, that's a long way off!" Hardy shook his head. "I swear, if you were a little older, I'd tell you to be a travel writer. You sure know your way around Olathe. Could make a good living off that, and it'd be fun too. Hell, I drive everywhere—maybe __I__ should do it!" He laughed at the thought, closing the door and setting off. As the bus drove down the road, he continued: "I've been there before. It's a tiny town with only around... hmm, 130 people? Though I will tell you, the mountains are beautiful. They've got a big stone quarry. While you're there, you should check out the mill. It's on a beautiful river, full of trout. You into fishing?"

Lisa grinned, glad to speak after a long day of silence. "Never. Do you and your sons like to fish?"

His eyes twinkled. "You remembered my boys, huh? Yeah, I took 'em out a few summers ago, but they were too small to keep calm. They kept bouncing around and scaring the fish! You can imagine what happened."

"Did you fall over?"

"We sure did! The boat completely tipped over and every one of us got drenched. I learned that day some of my boys are better swimmers than others. Poor Fardy sunk like a stone, but Lardy—always the leader!—got him. Tardy was flailing around and screaming, but I swear it was just drama. He was fine, but he thought it would be funny to make a scene. Meanwhile, Shardy just floated on his back. He didn't even care!"

That was the most interesting part of his story. He went on about how they got back on the boat and went out for lunch since they couldn't catch any fish, then switched to something completely different. Although his tales were far from fascinating, he spoke with a friendly familiarity Lisa had rarely known. People back home avoided her, convinced by her reputation that she wasn't worth the trouble to be around. Most adults talked down to her, but Hardy Hernandez was sympathetic and respectful.

Talking with him made her feel like a different person. He didn't know that she hit other kids and cussed and made endless messes her poor Grandpa had to clean up. He saw her as an independent person with thoughts that mattered.

Talking with him drew out a side of her that had long gone dormant. She chattered cheerfully instead of sulking silently, and the change filled her with optimism. Yes, it would be dangerous, surviving all alone in the world, but maybe this would be good for her. Maybe this was her chance to find herself, without being tethered down by her past mistakes and other people's expectations. Maybe there was a good girl hiding underneath the layers of dirt and shame and evil.

Living alone would be a good thing, Lisa decided. She made up her mind that this was going to work, and she was going to be happy no matter where she was. Nothing could be worse than the alternative.

She'd rather sleep on a foreign city's dirt than in her dad's bed.

When they finally reached Marble, Lisa thanked him and prepared to leave. "Oh, wait! Before you go, there's something I completely forgot." Hardy rifled through his glove compartment before pulling out a crumpled pink note. "Your friend wanted me to give this to you."

Lisa stared at the paper in confusion. A phone number was scribbled in red ink, next to a big smiley face. "Who?"

"Bernard, of course! Don't you remember him?"

The kind, friendly face popped into her mind. Of course, she remembered him—he was the nicest person she'd ever met, the only one who made her smile till her cheeks hurt, but she never expected to see him again. What were the odds they'd be on the same bus in the future? She had chalked their meeting up to a happy coincidence and pushed him from her mind, sad that she might never meet another sweet boy like him. Now she held concrete proof that he wanted to see her again, and her heart fluttered. "Wh-when did you get this?"

"I think it was...oh, a few weeks after you guys met. I happened to be driving when his family came on, and he asked if you were there. I said no, but he ran up and down the aisle anyway, checking just in case." He smiled warmly. "He really wanted to speak with you again, so he wrote down his phone number and asked me to give it to you when you came back. I told him I might not be there when you came back, but he was adamant. Isn't that sweet?"

Lisa's face sizzled. She couldn't believe someone would put forth that much effort to see her again. She wasn't special. How could he have remembered her months later? Why would he want her to call? Although she couldn't understand why Bernard would ask after her, the thought filled her with gratitude. She held the note close to her chest and grinned. "Thank you so much."

"It's no problem at all!" He laughed and pulled the bus door open. "Actually, thank __you__. Time went by much faster when I was talking to you. It'll be tough now, driving down this lonely road!"

She laughed back, stepping onto the dirt path. "I'm sure you'll survive." She waved until the bus drove away, and even though she was alone at night in a strange and small town, she couldn't fight the happiness that lifted her heart. Even as she wandered through the streets until she found a park, even as she shivered in her cold dirt bed beneath a clump of bushes, she couldn't fight a smile when she cradled Bernard's note to her heart.


	14. Lisa III

When Lisa first moved to Grandpa's house, she was inconsolable.

Although it must have been insufferable to hear loud cries in the middle of the night, Brad never held it against her. Even though he surely had troubles of his own, since he had to adjust to a new school, he comforted her instead of complaining. Night after night, he came to her room, cradling her close and singing until she fell asleep.

It took a full week before Lisa adjusted to her new surroundings and stopped crying, but Brad never lost his tenderness. Some of her earliest memories are of him brushing her hair and singing softly. Although he had a terrible voice, Lisa always lied and told him it was great because she didn't want him to stop. He only sang when they were alone, and when they were alone, he revealed his true self; there was no world to call him away, no work demanding his time, no friends making him turn into a different person and ignore her. In moments like that, he was hers alone.

On the streets, there was no one to sing her to sleep.

When hunger struck like a hammer to the head, Lisa would spend all day walking around whichever city she was in, searching for fallen money. Machines were good for coins—there was always a penny or two on the metallic underbellies—and sometimes, if she was lucky, she'd find a dollar on the ground. One day, she found a wallet with twelve dollars in a parking lot. It was such an exciting find she immediately blew it all on food, which she regretted later, but in the moment, it was the most delicious burger and fries she'd ever tasted.

That kept her full for the rest of the day, and at nighttime, she searched for a place to sleep. Although the days were bearable, the nights were grim and difficult. She struck gold when she found an abandoned car to sleep in, but she woke to the sounds of men rattling the doors open and ran so fast they yelled in surprise. After that, she never went back, too afraid of being kidnapped or worse. One night, she slept beneath a bridge, and it was so cold she spent most of the night shivering, cursing her clacking teeth and hating God for giving her this life.

There were some rays of hope, though. In one city, Lisa met a kind person at a gym who let her use their shower. The hot water was so wonderful, she had cried out in ecstasy. Little pleasures became her world, sustaining her through the crippling hunger and constant unease. She had to be vigilant to stay safe; there were too many creeps out there who thirsted for weakness. They never expected her punches and jabs, and by the time they recovered from surprise, she would run far, far away.

She was still bitter over having to leave Marble. It was every bit as beautiful as Mr. Hernandez had said. One day, she sat beside the rushing river and drank in Mother Nature's song: the winds, the water and the birds blended together in a simple yet soothing symphony, and she felt at peace.

Later, at a diner, a man kept staring at her over his newspaper. He spoke with the waitress, pointed at his page, and then the waitress stared, too. When the waitress came to take away Lisa's plates, she frowned. "Where are your parents?"

"Not here," Lisa said lightly, looking as innocent as she could.

The waitress squinted, like she wasn't sure of what she saw. "Obviously. You're not from here, are you?"

"No."

"Is your family looking for you?" The smile froze on Lisa's face. "You're far from home, aren'tcha?"

They had recognized her from a photo in the newspaper. Lisa wasn't important enough to make the front page of The Crystal Valley Echo, but there was a large school photo of her frowning face near the back, right above a short paragraph describing her height, weight, and missing status. It was infuriating. Even though she was hundreds of miles away, her family still chased after her, desperate to drag her back to their web.

That night, in a public bathroom, Lisa glared at her reflection and hacked at her hair until she looked nothing like the long-haired girl in the newspaper. Now, she had a jagged black bob that crawled just beneath her ears. With her baggy black jeans and oversized white shirt, she looked far more like a boy than the missing Lisa Armstrong. There was one thing wrong, though: Dad always said her eyes were her most distinctive feature, so she hid them beneath greasy bangs. Now, she was unrecognizable, just another rando who blended into the world's blurry background.

Once, in a documentary about the Great Depression, she had learned that people used to hop on boxcars to travel the country. Lisa asked around for the train tracks and decided to try her luck. Fortune was on her side: She successfully slipped into an empty cabin and watched the scenery until the train stopped in a city full of looming mountains with eerie green trees. Lisa traveled the streets until she reached the mountain's base, where a small sign described the Bloodmoon trees. They were fascinating, leaking cherry sap like bloody tears down their bark—but the area was off-limits to tourists and she was chased off.

Although it was tough to slip onto trains, and Lisa often hurt herself sneaking in or out, it was kind of fun, too, being all alone in the world. Or at least, she told herself that as often as she could. If she didn't fill her thoughts with cheer, she might collapse in despair. Everything became ten times harder, even things she had never given much thought to. Relieving herself became degrading; most of the time she could use public restrooms, but once or twice she had to go in nature, or in a corner of a boxcar, and it filled her with shame and disgust. Searching for a safe place to pass the night—and then sleeping with one eye open—was a source of constant stress. Sometimes, she stank so badly it made her sick. She moved through the world as a foul-smelling skeleton wrapped in a thin layer of flesh.

Her only relief came from the libraries where she took shelter in. Although she looked bad and smelled worse, they were quiet and safe, and she was left alone, even when people caught her cleaning herself in the sinks.

In the library, she could rest her aching back on a bean bag and forget about the world for a while. Reading took her away to far-off lands of impossibility, where good people were rewarded, and bad people were punished. There were heroes she could see herself in, people who were good at heart but who made mistakes and were hated and misunderstood. Seeing her struggles reflected in books with happy endings gave her hope, and she became closely acquainted with libraries in every city she visited. Books were her oasis from the daily shame of begging, filth and mistreatment.

In those cold, blurry days, Lisa was too focused on survival to track the time. It was only when the world filled with pink balloons and crimson roses that she realized she'd been gone for a little over a month. Windows in every shop were filled with Valentine's Day signs, advertising sales, events and holiday goods. Lisa walked through the city in amazement, shocked that she'd missed the passing of her own birthday on February 12.

The realization struck her to the core. Instead of being inside a warm house, enjoying cake and presents, she'd been shivering and alone and starving and ghost-like. She'd been alone in the world for a month, and she hadn't had a decent conversation with a friendly person in what felt like forever. How could she have only been gone for a month? How could she keep going on like this?

Lisa felt so lonely, she considered going back home. Maybe Grandpa would take her back instead of sending her to dad—but in 12 years, she'd never known the two of them to work together. Both preferred to think of the other as dead. Bad blood ran as deep as a cavern between them, so if they put aside their hatred of one another to come to an agreement, it must be set in stone. There would be no way Lisa could go back to living in Grandpa's house if he'd sell her to Marty.

The thought made her want to throw up. None of this would have happened if I had just listened to Brad and Grandpa, she thought. Why did I have to see Dad? Why couldn't I have just let it be? Lisa could have choked on her self-hatred; her wrists tingled, so she tried to look for distractions.

All around her, people roamed with happy faces. It seemed that everyone in the world was enjoying Valentine's Day, except for her. She peered out of a restaurant's windows to see families dining together between warm, yellow walls. When Lisa saw a laughing girl bouncing on her father's laugh, she ran away. The sight was so sweet she went sick with envy, her empty stomach churning and her fists aching to smack the smile off her face.

Instead, Lisa shoved her hands deep in her pockets and wandered the city, searching for warmth and seclusion. A café kicked her out at closing time, so she slunk back to the park and fell asleep in a dark, private area—but it wasn't so sheltered after all, since she woke up to a hard boot bruising her side and strange men yelling for her to get out. Startled, she scrambled away, angry at them yet disgusted with her own weakness. Moments like this made her feel worthless, less than human.

It was early morning, and the homeless men settled the space they'd stolen. They would sleep in the spot she had kept warm until the morning sun lit up the sky, but Lisa would have to wander in search for a safer place. Perhaps she could sleep later during the day. There was a library a few blocks away, so she settled her backpack on her shoulders and shivered on her way over. The day was already off to a bad beginning, but it worsened when the sky opened and unleashed a torrent of drenching rain.

Lisa wanted to shake her fist at the cruel sky for soaking her in its heavy tears, but she was distracted by a box of candy standing atop an overflowing trash can. To her surprise, it was half-full of chocolate malt balls. Stomach twisting in hunger, Lisa shoved the box into her sopping jacket pocket and fed herself one at a time, savoring the sweet, chalky flavor that mixed with the water in her mouth.

The treat took her back to better times, when she was a cheerful toddler running around in colorful Halloween outfits. Brad didn't like to dress up, but some years, she persuaded him to wear a costume that matched hers. He would grumble and groan, but he always smiled in Grandpa's pictures. Lisa suddenly wished she had brought one of those photos with her. A vivid image filled her mind of she and Brad standing in front of the small, yellow house, both in brown dog costumes and big, fluffy tails.

It was one of their rare family photos, and she always liked seeing it over the fireplace. Thinking about it made Lisa's eyes sting with tears, and she tilted her head up at the sky so no one would catch her crying. I miss Brad so much. If she focused hard, she could imagine his heavy hand ruffling her hair, the crinkle of his smiling eyes. "Ready to learn some new moves?" He would ask, and she'd slip a bookmark into her story and run after him in excitement.

That was long ago, when she was a clumsy little girl and not a stupid, worthless slut. She missed the days when Brad and she were close. Even if he didn't like her anymore, Lisa would give just about anything to see him again. She felt like the insect corpse washing down the street's storm drain.

The taste of chocolate covered her tongue when lights crept upon her peripheral vision. Shivering, she turned to see a rusty, old, grey truck pulling up. A tinted window rolled down to reveal a young man with long, brown hair smiling from the driver's seat. "Well, hello there."

It had been forever since Lisa spoke to such a friendly person. She smiled back tentatively, conscious of the rain running down her face.

"You okay, sweetie?" The guy asked. She nodded and started to walk away, but the car inched forward, keeping pace with her. "Why are you out here all alone?"

Lisa shrugged, wondering why he cared, but she eyed him in hope. Maybe he would be a friendly stranger who offered some food or directions. Usually, she had to approach people for help, but occasionally someone would ask if she was lost. They never stuck around, but maybe this man would be different. Maybe he could be a friend, like Mr. Hernandez.

"You must be freezing cold! Why don't you hop in and dry up? I've got a towel you can use."

"Thanks, but no thanks," Lisa said. Although he seemed friendly, she wasn't going anywhere with a stranger. She waved at him and walked away, her freezing feet squelching with every step she took. As the rain pounded her skin and plastered her hair to her flesh, she thought about a documentary she'd once watched in which stranded hikers got hypothermia.

"Whoa, there!" There was laughter beside her, and the man's red, wet lips spread in a playful grin. "Are you sure, sweetie? You're soaking. Forgot your umbrella at home?"

"I'm okay. I like the rain." As Lisa spoke, doubt dampened her resolve. Her body was freezing, and she would have given anything to go someplace warm and dry her sodden feet.

"Nothin' wrong with liking rain. But this right here?" He pointed to the sky and leaned forward; his white shirt was stained with grease. "I'd call this too much of a good thing. Like daddy used to say, 'Let the rain kiss you... but once she gets too handsy, go back inside!' Haaaaaaaa! "

Lisa stepped back at the loud laughter. He watched her with eager eyes, one hand on the wheel and the other leaning over the wet car door. "Why don't I give you a ride home?"

She peered at him, thoughtfully, and took him in: His car looked like a wreck, with trash strewn everywhere. Beer cans littered the backseat, and old fast food wrappers filled the seat beside him. Despite his ragged car and dirty clothes, he was cheerful—perhaps too much so. Still, he seemed non-threatening. Maybe he was like her: dirty and gross on the outside, but kind and decent inside. When Lisa coughed, rainwater trickled down her throat, tarnishing the chocolate on her tongue. It would be nice to eat without water gushing down her face.

She took a malt ball from my pocket and ate it, considering the offer. Sudden anger flashed in the man's eyes, and she flinched. For some reason, he seemed upset that she was eating while talking to him. Immediately, she tensed up, recognizing the irrational, hair-trigger temper she suffered through during the summers.

"No, thank you," she said firmly.

His disturbed glare transformed into a more relaxed expression. "Are you sure?" He drawled, trying to sound nonchalant despite the tension. "I don't mind stopping by the store and grabbing something for you. A treat, on me." Pale, brown eyes roamed over her frame, from her head to her toes. "You're looking awfully skinny, sweetheart. I wouldn't mind putting some meat on those bones."

Something in his tone made her sick, and when his eyes dragged over her wet chest, her father's lust burned in her mind. Lisa took a quick step back, startled—and then ran like wind.

"HEY!" His voice screeched like a sour violin note. Lisa's wet, heavy boots slapped down on the pavement as she dashed away. Beside her, the truck surged ahead of her, and the man was yelling something, but Lisa couldn't tell what he was saying over her booming heartbeat and the crashing rain ahead and the wet smack of her sopping shoes. The rickety, grey truck lurched to a stop, and the car door flew open. Lisa turned on her heel and dashed in the opposite direction—but she slipped on something and slammed down on the hard ground.

"Gotcha!" Strong hands snatched her wrists hauled her, arm-first, into the air. Lisa screamed so loudly her throat went raw, and then she screamed some more as she kicked, flailed, and struggled to free herself. The man swore when her teeth found flesh, but his grip tightened as he dragged her backwards, towards the filthy car. Sickening laughter rippled goosebumps across her flesh. "Like daddy used to say, 'The price of success is hard work.'" His hot breath fanned her. "And I plan to work you hard…"

"NO!" Lisa screamed louder than thunder, thrashing in his iron grip. A hand clamped over her mouth, and Lisa dug her teeth into his skin, tasting blood and twisting away to kick his groin. The man grunted in pain, and finally his hands loosened. Lisa tore off like a cheetah and screamed, running into the street before an oncoming car.

"Help!" She shouted. "Please, help me!"

Light flooded her vision as the green car screeched to a stop. "What is wrong with you?" A man yelled out the window, and Lisa ran up to him.

"That man just tried to kidnap me! Please, call the police!"

What happened next was a blur. The old, grey truck zoomed off and the man in the second car only said, "Stay here!" before tearing off after it, vacuums rattling in his backseat. Dust and smoke filled the air as the cars rushed out of her vision, and Lisa wasn't sure if she should stay or not. Part of her wanted to leave—get the hell out of here in case anything else happened—but she didn't want to let down the man in the second car. What if he caught the bad guy and called the police, but the bad guy claimed there was no girl? What if the man who had stuck his neck out for her got in trouble? Lisa constantly got in trouble over misunderstandings. She didn't want to make anyone else go through that, especially if they were willing to help her, so she leaned up against a nearby tree and crouched down, hugging her knees tight to her chest and crying silently.

She waited until her tears dry and waited longer after that. Eventually, the cries of police sirens grew closer, and Lisa looked up to find the man who had helped her running up with a police officer. "That's her!" He said, his wide face red with exertion, his green shirt stained with sweat. "That's the girl who asked for help."

A tall, burly officer lumbered over and offered his hand to help her up. He took her to the police station, where he asked her what had happened. She answered to the best of her ability, but when he started asking questions about who she was and where she lived, her lips clamped shut.

"Miss? Can you answer me?"

Lisa shook her head no, wet bangs flopping over her face.

"Where does your family live?"

Lisa couldn't speak; the same snake that uncoiled itself when she thought of Marty stretched over her tongue and hissed in resistance to all his questions. Soon, the policeman's patience melted away, leaving anger in its wake. "You can sleep in a cell if you don't want to answer," he said, so she nodded and sat behind the bars. The bed was as hard as a stone, and there were no blankets or pillows, so Lisa put her head on her soaking backpack and slept through the night, dreaming of spiders crawling over her flesh, leaving no stretch of skin untouched.


	15. Lisa IV

It's a beautiful day when Lisa blows out the candles on her birthday cake.

It's a belated celebration, but it's also bigger and better than any party she's ever had. Kids from her class insisted on coming, and they run through her halls and sing a discordant chorus of "Happy Birthday." Grandpa bought her an enormous, colorful cake, with thick, cream-cheese frosting, edible roses and vanilla layers (normally she had chocolate cakes, but she can't stand the taste now).

She knows they're only here because her face was on their parents' newspapers and their morning milk cartons, but it's nice, nonetheless. Lisa's never had a friendship that lasted very long, so the friendly faces and cheerful attention fills her stomach with happy butterflies.

Kids smile at her and pepper her with presents in colorful papers, and their parents tell her how happy they are to see her home safe. Even some of the girls Lisa fought with are there, blushing in shame and apologizing for treating her so badly. (They brought especially large presents.)

Everyone wants to know what the last few months have been like. Lisa drinks in their eager eyes and spins dust into gold, bragging about the beautiful places she saw and the adventures she had, leaving out all of the pain and discomfort. They're excited with her stories, fascinated by what she's painted as a split-second decision to travel the country and live alone. None of them understands what she went through—and that's exactly how she wants it.

The vanilla cake tastes wonderful, and across the room, she meets Brad's eyes and smiles. He's decided to move back in so he can help take care of her, and they're going to go to a theme park after this and spend the whole day together. He and Grandpa are proud of her for fighting back, and Marty's far, far away, never to be seen again.

People are happy to see her, the room is warm, and there's so much delicious food Lisa could burst. Life is wonderful, and things are finally starting to look up.

That's what Lisa wishes would happen—but reality could never match her hope.

* * *

Edwin Armstrong sighs as the phone rings in his ear. "She's back," he says, by way of greeting.

"Thank God! Where'd they find her?"

"Nearly 100 miles away, wandering through some neighborhood."

"Christ. How is she?"

"Seems okay. Very…sweet. And thankful. She won't tell us anything, except that she's all right and nobody touched her."

"Good. I can't wait to see her — I'm gonna head out now."

"Don't."

"What? It's time for her to come home!"

"She is home."

"Dad, we already agreed to this! You can't back out now. I don't know what you did to make her leave, but—"

"I told her she was going to live with you. That's when she left."

" You're the reason she ran away. You messed her up just like you ruined me! I served my time. I'm a free man. I'm taking my baby home."

"Listen to me. She snuck out right after I said she'd move to your place. Why would she do that? What did you do?"

"You're the last person who has any right to question me as a father!"

"Martin… I've changed. I made my mistakes with you, but—"

"Y'know what? Fuck that. You made mistakes with me? What about what you did to mom ? You hurt her more than you ever hurt me!"

"…I made my peace with your mother. Don't drag her into this."

"I'll never forgive you for what you did to her. The least you can do is bring my daughter home, where she belongs."

"…Fine."

Edwin Armstrong hangs up the phone and holds his head in his hand, tears running down his weathered cheeks.

* * *

Lisa doesn't speak during the drive. At first, Grandpa tries to talk to her—"Your dad will walk you through your new school. You'll get a private tour. Won't that be fun?"—but she stonewalls him until he finally shuts up.

He's betrayed her for the last time. He wouldn't even let her get on the bus alone because he was afraid of her running away again. Instead of letting her stay home, he refused. Now, he's dead to her.

Nothing will ever change. She sees that now.

Only she can save herself.

* * *

Brad's old school is small and stark, with pale brown walls and white-trimmed windows.

Dad's changed back into the man he was when they first met, looking clean and neat in his best brown suit. He dressed up when they met at the bus station and dragged her off the bus into a suffocating hug she didn't want. Instead of helping Lisa move her things into her new home, Grandpa chose to stay in the bus and get off at the next stop, simply because he didn't want to meet Marty. "Arrogant bastard," dad hissed on the ride home. "Thinks he's too good to step foot in my house. Well, joke's on him. I fixed the place up, all for my special, pretty girl."

The house was still hideous on the outside and dilapidated on the inside, but dad had patched up the holes in the wall, and it no longer smelled like booze and piss. Dad puffed up with pride when she walked through the door, acting like he deserved a medal for not living in squalor. Lisa wonders how long it will last.

Now, dad grips her hand and leads her to her new middle school. Daisies line the stony path to the front door, and the laughter of children carries over from the playground. Inside, the halls are grimy and scuffed with the shoe marks of a hundred tiny feet, though there are colorful posters and banners declaring various fundraisers and events. One flyer says there will be a bake sale next Friday.

Dad follows her eyes and nudges her side. "That'll be fun, huh? Maybe we can make some cookies."

Lisa frowns. "You don't bake."

"Well," he huffs and looks away, "it's never too late to learn."

The main office looks dingy under its harsh, fluorescent lighting, but the elderly lady at the front desk smiles and hands Lisa a grape lollipop, which she shoves into her pocket for later. She's still unused to friendly strangers, but they're more common now that she looks less like a homeless boy and more like a well-groomed girl.

A trip to the salon during a so-called "daddy-daughter day" scrubbed away all signs of her rough time on the road: Her hair went from a jagged mane to a small, neat bob, and her nails were painted sparkly pink at dad's insistence. He's been working extra hard to make her happy, but she's been stubborn, refusing to smile for him. Strangely enough, her silence makes him work harder to please her; he bought a new, soft turtleneck sweater, which Lisa likes because it hides her body. It's a creamy white color that makes her golden pendant stand out, and it goes well with her blue jeans and crimson boots. She's still bitter about the move, but it's nice to have clothes that aren't ruined and ridden with holes.

"Oh, hello there! Is this our new student?" A woman walks out of a side office and crouches down to Lisa's level. A lock of long, brown hair slips over her shoulders, and her almond-shaped eyes sparkle with sweet excitement. "Welcome to your new school! How are you liking it so far?"

"Um…" Lisa looks down, suddenly anxious.

"Oh, well, how can I expect you to answer when you haven't seen anything yet? Let's go!"

They walk through the rest of the school, listing off the cafeterias, classrooms and so on. Lisa's unimpressed, save for an indoor swimming pool that looks nice. She doesn't know how to swim, but it might be fun to learn.

"And here's the playground. Why don't you look around?" The woman gestures forwards, and Lisa glances at her father for permission. He frowns, obviously not wanting her to leave, but since he doesn't say anything, Lisa takes the opportunity to escape his stifling presence.

Lisa walks past a series of giant planters with bright, yellow roses. Some kids are sitting on the small, mosaic-covered walls that surround the plants, chowing down on their lunches and babbling about class, games and movies. Black asphalt spreads as far as the eye can see, holding a basketball court, a hopscotch area, and colorful chalk drawings a gang of kids are adding to. Three girls are drawing orange lines to bring a jumping lion to life, while a group a few steps away is playing a jump rope game. It looks fun, but Lisa suddenly feels small and shy, overwhelmed by the noise after weeks of solitude.

A few kids stare at her, but she's not special enough to warrant too much attention, so she slips by the lunch benches and handball courts unbothered. She settles at a large, grassy area with enormous trees whose branches stretch towards the cerulean sky. Sighing, she sits upon an old's tree's winding roots, watching her future classmates playing and enjoying their lives.

How am I going to fit in with them? Lisa tries to imagine walking up to a group and asking to play. They would probably wrinkle their noses and say no—or, if they were kind enough to say yes, they might go suddenly quiet, awkward around her strange and unsettling presence. Maybe she could impress them with the story of how she ran away from home—or maybe they'd ask why she ran away, and then she'd have to come up with an interesting lie that she'd have to hide behind forever. Her thoughts take her far away, and she loses track of her surroundings until a quiet voice says, "Hello?"

Lisa flinches. A boy stands beside her, one hand resting on the tree's bark, the other lifting his long, blonde bangs so he can see her better. When Lisa meets his blue gaze, she bursts into a smile and jumps up. "Hi, Bernard!"

"Oh my gosh, it is you! Hi!" Bernard steps forward, as if to hug her, then leans back and smiles shyly. "I thought it was you, but I wasn't sure with your new haircut."

"Oh, yeah." Lisa strokes her hair. "I wanted to try out a new look. People kept recognizing me, so I wanted to, you know, go undercover."

"Why were people recognizing you? Are you famous or something?"

"Not really, but I was in a few newspapers," she says. "I ran away, so my Grandpa put out an alert saying I was missing."

"Whoa, you ran away?" Bernard's eyes go wide.

"I did! I lasted almost a month before I got caught. It was amazing," Lisa lies, leaning against the bark and crossing her arms in what she hopes is a cool pose. "I hopped on train cars and hitched rides, and I traveled through a bunch of different cities, hundreds of miles away."

"That's so cool!" Bernard looks so excited there might be stars in his eyes. Immediately, Lisa feels at ease, remembering how much he seemed like a puppy when they first met. He has the same sweet, wholesome enthusiasm now, and they fall into conversation just as easily as they did before. He eats up her every word about the past few weeks, and she listens closely when he tells her all the important things about school: which teachers are cool, which kids to avoid, and which cafeteria foods are the best and worst.

"The pizzas are the best, of course," he's saying. "We get it every Friday. But what you gotta do is avoid the Sloppy Joe. See, it looks good, but it tastes like ass."

Lisa bursts out laughing, and his silly dolphin-snort joins in. "Man," she says once she catches her breath. "I am so happy you go to this school! I was worried I wouldn't make any friends."

"Oh…" He looks away, cheeks dusty pink. "So, we're friends then?"

"Of course!"

"Good!" He smiles, but it's ingenuine. "I was worried you didn't like me, since you never called."

Lisa thinks back to all the nights she spent alone, shivering from the cold but warm when she thought of his note. No matter how hard things got, she had physical proof that, even if she wasn't special, there was someone in the world who wanted to speak with her. She'd been terrified of ruining it, of breaking whatever spell had made him want to see her again. How could she explain it? I felt like I didn't deserve to speak to you. I wanted to, but I was afraid if I did, you'd realize how wrong you were for liking me. I didn't want you to know me better because then you wouldn't like me. I thought it was better to leave you alone in case I ruined everything. I wanted to keep you perfect in my mind. I didn't want to ruin you like I ruin everyone.

He could never understand. If she spoke, she'd only make herself look crazy. Instead, she hugs him.

Berny's face is beet red when she pulls away. "Wh-what was that for?"

"I wanted to."

He smiles through his blush, looking thoroughly flustered. "Heh-heh, I'm glad," he says. "Hey, so, can I have your number? I just mean—if you're not busy, I might like to talk to you. Um, unless you're planning on running away again…?"

Lisa sighs. "Not now, but who knows what'll happen?" The thought troubles her. Marty hasn't turned—yet. Things are as she always hoped they would be, but he's unpredictable and capable of staggering evils. As cautious as she is around him, naïve optimism nips at her anger. She can't help but wonder if dad truly changed. Maybe he's learned his lesson. Now that he knows I won't take it, he might be afraid of losing me again…

She knows better than to trust him, though. If anything happens, she will run away. She won't stand for it. If she can survive homelessness once, she can do it again.

"Um, Lisa?" She snaps out of her reverie and gives him the numbers to her grandpa's and dad's houses. "I'm living with my dad now, but I might leave to go to my grandpa's," she explains.

Bernard, who had pulled out a small, black notebook to write the numbers down, glances up at her. "Really? Why?"

Lisa isn't sure of what to say. As nice as Bernard is, she barely knows him, isn't sure if he can handle the truth. She gives him a snippet instead: "My dad has… a mean streak. Sometimes, I can't stand to be around him." That doesn't even touch upon the depths of his depravity, but it's the best explanation she can give.

His eyes light up in sympathy. "I completely know what you mean. My dad is such an asshole! Er, pardon my French," he adds quickly.

"Consider yourself un pardoned," Lisa jokes. "I don't mind if you cuss. In fact, feel free to French it up all around me."

He snickers. "Right, I totally forgot about that! The first thing I ever heard you say was 'Fuck off, bastard!' to that creep on the bus."

"I don't think those were my exact words, but yeah, you're pretty close." Lisa leans over to see the Bernard scribbling down her numbers with a red pen. The paper is pink, just like the note he gave her. "What's that?"

"Just my notebook." He looks suddenly shy and moves it away.

"Do you like to write?"

"…Yeah."

"That's great! I don't write, but I love reading. What kind of stories do you write?"

"Oh, uh, I don't write…stories." He looks away from her, his blue eyes guilty, and Lisa plucks the notebook from his hand. "Hey! Give it back!" He jumps forward to grab it, but Lisa holds it out of his reach.

"Why not?" She asks innocently. "Aren't we friends?"

Bernard pauses, confusion overriding the anger on his face. Lisa continues: "Do you like me?"

"Yeah, but—"

"Then let me look, and I'll like you, too."

She knows deep down she's being nasty—but it's for a good reason: he barely knows her, and she's afraid that at any moment he might lose interest. Hopefully, she'll find something in here they can connect over and have future conversations about. Flipping through the notebook reveals notes from class and scattered diary entries. I hate my mom, he wrote on one page. She's such a bitch! On another: I can't wait till I'm older and I'm too big for dad to whoop me. I hate him so much, I can't wait to hurt him back…

It's darker than anything she expected to see. She was hoping for some poetry or pictures they could look over, or maybe even notes about movies or books. Something light-hearted, some indication of a shared interest they could bond over. With a sinking stomach, she realizes that she may have shot herself in the foot. Maybe, he now sees her as a mean, pushy bitch he doesn't want for a friend…

She turns another page to find a paper with jagged pen marks that cut deep into the paper. KILL LIST, the top of the page reads. On every line, a new person is listed by their first and last names, followed by a list of ways they've wronged him. "Spit in my face and kicked my crotch," one reads. "Stole my friends and got me in trouble," another reads. Looking through, Lisa learns that her new friend isn't nearly as popular as she thought. She had seen his sweet face and friendly demeanor and assumed he had a loyal flock of friends. This tells a completely different story, one of a bullied boy, angry and alone at the bottom of the totem pole.

So, he's not so sweet, after all. Lisa glances up at Bernard, whose chubby face is twisted in guilt and anger. His big, blue eyes are wet, but he stubbornly keeps the tears from falling, as if he's too proud to cry. On one hand, it's startling to see this side of him—but on the other hand, Lisa's relieved to know he's not as perfect as she built him up to be in her head. Sweet Bernard isn't too good for her, after all. He's just like her: beaten down and angry at the world.

Her heart swells with newfound fondness.

Lisa smiles as though his glare weren't burning a hole in her skin and hands him the book. She ignores the way he snatches it out of her hands, speaking like there's nothing wrong. "That was interesting. Thanks for showing me."

"I didn't show it to you! I didn't even want you to see it!"

"I'm glad I saw it." Lisa keeps her voice low and calm. "I feel like I can trust you now. Friends shouldn't keep secrets from each other…right?"

"I…" Bernard holds the notebook close to his chest, his eyebrows furrowed. "I don't know."

"I can help you." Lisa steps forward. "I can teach you how to fight back against bullies."

The anger melts from his face, replaced by surprise—and a sliver of doubt. "No, you can't."

"I can. My grandpa owns his own dojo, and my brother works as a martial arts instructor. I've been learning how to fight since I was old enough to walk!" Lisa jumps onto the grass and lowers her body into a crouch, lifting her fists above her face. "Do you even know why I'm transferring to this new school? It's because I kept getting in fights and wiping the floor with the other kids."

"No way!" Bernard looks excited now, back to his sweet, normal self.

His energy is contagious. Lisa grins at him. " Yes way. I once beat up three girls who had me cornered against the lockers. I smacked the first girl in her face and threw both her friends down in a matter of seconds."

"That's amazing! Can you show me?"

Lisa boasts about her moves to the most enthusiastic audience she's ever received. Although she was afraid earlier that she'd crippled their budding friendship, he seems to have gotten over his anger and replaced it with excitement. They haven't spent nearly enough time sparring together when Dad's bellowing in the distance reaches her ears.

"HEY!" He yells, and Lisa realizes he must have seen Bernard throw a kick at her. She'd asked him to, wanted to see his stance so she could correct it, but of course dad wouldn't know that. Now dad is racing towards them with bloodthirsty eyes.

"Dad, no!" She runs up to him, holding her hands out. "I asked him to!"

"What?" He grinds to a halt.

"I wanted to show him the Armstrong style!"

It was the wrong thing to say. Marty's eyes darken with anger, and he grabs her arm and jerks it hard. "You don't need any of that dumb karate shit your granddad does. It's not for you."

"Dad, fighting helped me protect myself when I was on the streets—"

"Well, you're not on the streets anymore!" Dad bellows so hard his breath hits her face, and Lisa freezes. For a moment, she's not on the playground anymore: She's in bed, suffocating, and his alcohol breath washes over her. "You're back home where you belong, and you'll never have to fight again!"

She wants to move, but she can't. She's frozen, outside of her body, remembering what the did to her. Children around them have stopped their games to watch as dad shoves her out of the way and points a fat, accusing finger at Bernard. "And you ," he hisses. "If I ever catch you around my daughter, I'll—"

"DON'T TOUCH HIM!" Lisa leaps in front of Bernard and holds her arms out, as wide as she can. "Don't you dare lay a finger on him!" She's screaming now, louder than she's ever screamed before. It's the first time she's ever talked to dad this way, and a little part of her mind begs her to stop because this could hurt her later—but a bigger part is afire with rage. How dare he try to steal her one and only friend! How dare he threaten the one person on Earth who makes her cheeks hurt from smiling! He has no right! He took everything, but not this. She won't let him.

Dad takes a step back, shocked by the fury in her voice. It takes him a moment before he licks his lips and speaks, low and threatening: "You have no right talking to your daddy this way."

"If you hurt him," Lisa says, cursing the crack in her voice, "I will never forgive you. I will hate you forever, and I'll never love you again."

He's shocked. He looks at her like she's grown an extra head, like she's a ghost that popped out of the graveyard. They stare at each other in the tensest moment of her life, and Lisa has never been more scared before. Not even the time she was almost abducted could match this.

As she looks into her father's eyes, she realizes that he could kill her. She would snap like a stick in his meaty fingers, unable to defend herself. She couldn't kill him—she tried and failed.

When he drags her away, past the crowds of staring children, past the startled office worker who guided them through the school, Lisa stays limp and silent, keeping her head down and staring at the ground. She's quiet all the way home, hoping It won't happen again.

* * *

Marty took off the mask that night.

Three days. _Three fucking days _he lasted in his role as the normal, loving and supportive father who wanted his runaway daughter to have a good life. Three days he treated her like a normal human being instead of a filthy, worthless puppet of meat.

Lisa should have known. She saw it coming, but she was foolish and hoped this wouldn't happen instead. Now, she was hurting not only in body and soul, but in her mind, too. _I'm so fucking stupid, _she thought.

Now she's trapped and it's all her fault and she knows if she just _kept her mouth shut _, she wouldn't be going through this, but she's a dumb, worthless slut who was too idiotic to realize that monsters can't change. They're always monsters.

She cries and writhes under the grunting beast, but he's too strong and he's here to stay. He says as much, spitting evil into her ear: _"Why are you fighting so hard? Accept it... You can't fight something that already happened. There is no understanding, no purpose... There is only life, and this one is yours. Accept it... You're here to stay."_

Lisa won't accept it.

Dad falls asleep on top of her, his spit mingling with her hair, and she struggles until she's free from his flesh-prison, throwing up on the floor and crying and packing her things and _leaving_.

This time, she has a back-up plan. Her razors burn a hole in her pocket. If he finds her, she knows what to do.


	16. Lisa V

She wakes up in the heart of the woods, with twigs in her hair and dirt in her mouth. This time she didn't bring a backpack — desperation twisted her into a mindless animal focused only on escape. Her feet ache from running through the night, and she doesn't remember falling asleep. Everything is hazy.

Lisa rubs the sand from her eyes. Her skin stings from the beginning of a sunburn, and she realizes it must be the late afternoon. She nears nothing except the swaying of leaves and distant birdsong.

Once again, she's alone in the world, which means she needs to think straight, but no matter how hard she tries, she can't get Marty out of her head. Every time she closes her eyes, his red, sweaty face is there. She sees him in the leaves of the trees, in shadows on the dirt, even in the distance, which makes her gasp and hide the first couple of times before she realizes it's a trick from her broken mind.

"There is only one life, and this one is mine." The words are like acid in her mouth, but she speaks them anyway, telling the wind her truth. "I will not suffer through this life. I will be free, or I will die."

She touches her pocket, feeling the shape of sharp razors. It's an ugly comfort, but it stills her racing heartbeat. It's a back-up plan, a safeguard in case she doesn't make it. She hopes not to need them — but a small, evil part of her whispers, If you do it, you'll be free forever. If you do it, he will never hurt you again. Lisa must fight hard not to listen, but the idea is secretly thrilling. It would be unbearable, and she would die slowly, but it's an awful death that she deserves. She's not good enough for a slit throat or a noose. She's a worthless slut who deserves to suffer.

"_**NO!**_" Lisa slaps herself; her head rings and her throat aches. "I am not evil. I don't deserve to suffer." She must speak the words aloud so they're stronger than her thoughts. "No one deserves this. I may not be a good person, but even I deserve to live!"

She walks onward, focused only on putting one foot ahead of the other. Falling into her thoughts is dangerous; she needs to be strong, because she's all she has in the world. Lisa avoids the roads and runs when she hears footsteps. Instead, she stays hidden behind enormous trees, shielding herself with branches and bushes.

Eventually, she comes across a river, and she has a faint memory she can't fully recall. She closes her eyes and sees Brad running with her through the soggy banks. He's younger in her mind, a sweet, chubby kid with red cheeks that match his baggy shirt. There's another person there, but Lisa can't recall who. Could it have been her mom?

But no, she realizes, that's impossible. Mom died when Lisa was only a few months old, driven mad by her own emotions. That's how Grandpa explained it, but it never made sense. How could childbirth drive someone crazy? Then, she wheedled Brad into telling her more, and he mentioned an emptied bottle of sleeping pills beside her dying hands. Puzzle pieces fell into place, and Lisa grimly realized that she was the reason mom died.

If mom is dead because of me, I must live a good life — for both of us, Lisa thinks. But it's hard to be brave, to content herself with a phantom instead of a flesh-and-blood mother. Did mom even want her?

Lisa's belly twists in hunger, but she tries not to think of it. Part of her wants to go into town and ask for food or money, but she's too afraid of being caught, so she sings over her stomach's groaning cries. "From this valley they say you are going, I will miss your bright eyes and sweet smile, For they say you are taking the sunshine, That has brightened our pathway the while…"

* * *

There's a woman standing below a giant tree.

Her back is to Lisa, but her long, black hair reaches her waist, and her head is tipped backward as she stares at the branches.

Lisa flinches at the sight; she hasn't seen another person for days, and she's terrified of being caught. Quiet as a mouse, she steps back so she can take the long way around the trees and avoid detection.

"Lisa... Is that you?" The woman's voice is clear as a church bell. "I-I'm sorry. I didn't want to leave. Lisa, I love you."

" Mom? " Lisa gasps in shock and delight and surges forwards, wrapping her arms around her mother's waist, hugging her tightly from behind. Tears shoot from her face, as powerful and unstoppable as a tsunami. She sobs like a child, happier than she's ever been in her life. "Mom, I thought you were dead. I'm so happy I could die."

"Look."

A pale, grey hand points upwards, and Lisa sees strange fruit hanging from a high branch. At the bottom of a long line of rope, a woman in a black dress hangs from a ragged noose. Fiery hair obscures her face, but a gust of wind reveals that she has no eyes, ears or mouth: only a bloody pit that drips red onto mom's pointing finger.

Lisa jumps away like she'd been burned. "Mom, what is that?"

"It's your legacy." Lisa's blood runs cold. "You'll die by your own hand, as did I, as did your grandmother before me. Join us, Lisa."

When mom turns around, she has Marty's face.

"You can't run!" It yells, but Lisa doesn't listen. She runs until the woods swallows her whole.

* * *

Hunger must be the root of Lisa's madness, because the next time she jerks awake from delirious dreams, she starts hallucinating food smells.

Somewhere close, her nose tells her, sweet beans are roasting on a campfire. Logic tells her it's a figment of her imagination — but she can't help but wonder, Of all the food in the world, why would I dream about beans? When she's starving, she craves raw, bloody steak or a thick piece of chicken to sink her teeth into. Beans are on the bottom of her most desirable food list.

With nothing left to lose, Lisa follows her nose, praying she won't stumble into another terrifying delusion. She's still shaken up from her mom, still sick from vomiting and crying. She must look like Hell, but she doesn't care — it's not like she's going to run into anyone in the woods.

The smell brings her through a thicket of bushes, where a young man cooks a can of beans over a crackling fire. His back is to her, and his head of long, blond hair is bent down as he pokes and prods at the fire. Lisa creeps over and is pleasantly surprised to see he doesn't have Marty's face at all: His long face has hints of baby fat, and there's a bulbous nose and ice-blue eyes with flecks of gold around the irises. Lisa read in a book once that every face you see in your dreams reflects someone you've seen before, but she can't place her finger on who this person is. He does seem vaguely familiar…

Then he screams like a trapped mouse. His tall, thick figure stumbles over the log he sat on, and he scrambles backward in the dirt like a beetle on its back. It looks so silly that Lisa can't help but laugh, and the boy's mouth moves like a fish out of water.

"It's you!" He cries out, looking like he's seen a ghost.

Lisa hides a smile behind her fingers. "Who am I?" She asks. If this is an illusion, it seems to be a funny one. She decides to stick around to see what strange dream her mind comes up with.

"I-I don't know." The boy's ruddy face darkens, and he stands up, dusting his clothes. They're filthy: His baggy jeans are riddled with holes and stains from food, dirt and grass, and his giant jacket smells foul, like he plucked it straight from the garbage can and decided to swim in its tarnished fabric. "B-But…we've met before, I th-think." He's almost twice her size, even though they're close in age. When his pale eyes peer down at her, Lisa gets a familiar feeling.

"You may be right," she says, and her words are followed by a bellowing growl from her stomach. Beside the campfire, there's a small, dented pan filled with food and a discarded can of beans. She stares at it hungrily, and the boy clears his throat and gestures to the upturned log he's sitting on.

"You can, uh, join me, if you'd like," he says, and Lisa can tell from his nervous expression that he doesn't really want her here, but since he's too polite to tell her to scram, she plops down beside him and hopes she doesn't drool from the smell. Who knew beans, of all things, could seem so delicious?

"Thanks!" She tries to sound chipper, but her gaunt face and ragged appearance betrays her false cheer. The boy leans away from her like he's afraid she's a wood-sprite here to steal his soul. "I'm Lisa. What's your name?"

He shakes her outstretched hand with all the enthusiasm of a dead fish. "I'm D-Dustin."

"Nice to meet you. So, what are you doing alone out here, in the middle of the night?"

He frowns. "I c-could ask you the same thing, you know."

"And I'll tell you." Lisa's smile feels like cracks in a glass. "I'm here because I ran away from home."

"Oh!" His icy eyes light up in remembrance. "From your dad, right?"

"How do you know that?"

"The l-last time we met…you mentioned him." When he sees her blank face, he continues: "You were screaming about him so loudly, I thought you were getting m-murdered, so I came over and… you were just… th-thrashing around. I thought you were possessed or something."

"I don't remember that at all, but it sounds like something I would do." Lisa hums. "That must explain why I don't remember you though, if you just watched."

"I didn't just watch." His voice gains a note of confidence now. "I came over to help you, and you…you hit me!"

"Did I?" Lisa looks over him closely. His words don't ring the faintest bell, but he looks serious, and he's frowning at her with such intensity she believes him. "Well, I never hit anyone who doesn't deserve it. What'd you do?"

"I didn't do anything!" He cries out. "I just c-came over to see if you were okay, and you jumped up and p-popped me in the eye."

"Well, I'm sorry about that, but I wouldn't hit you without reason. You must have said something rude."

He gasps, shocked at her audacity. Lisa leans over to snatch up the pan of beans. "Mind if I help myself?" He's still staring, so she tips the pan over for a warm, gushy mouthful of beans. They're plain and cheap, but she's been so starving that her stomach gulps them down like ambrosia. It feels like heaven, and after her mouth's full, she hands it to Dustin with a bloated-cheeked smile.

Dustin shakes his head in disbelief. "All I said was…I just asked if you were o-okay, and then you said the F-word, and we started talking about p-parents. Then, you said your dad is a monster—"

By now, Lisa had swallowed the last of her beans and licked her greasy lips. "Which he is. So, when did I hit you?"

Dustin fishes a spoon out of his pocket and takes small bites that look dainty compared to her ravenous guzzling. "All I said was, m-maybe he wasn't that bad, and that's when you screamed and smacked me so hard, I was a-afraid I'd get a black eye."

"You shouldn't have said that. It's rude to tell other people what their lives are like." Lisa frowns, but she feels a twinge of guilt for attacking the gentle giant — even though she can't remember it. "I am sorry, Dustin. I shouldn't have hit you, but sometimes I get so mad I can't help it."

"Th-that's not an excuse," he says meekly. "You shouldn't hit people over a misunderstanding. But…I accept your apology. Just… d-don't do it again, okay?"

"Okay. I promise." She holds out her pinky, and his large finger wraps around hers in agreement. Both of their nails are caked in days' worth of dirt, but the unspoken signal shatters the veil of awkwardness. Dustin passes her the pan after a few bites, and this time she accepts the offered spoon so she's not eating like a dog at a jar of peanut butter. They pass the pan back and forth until it's empty, all to the creaking chorus of crickets.

It's strange, but also peaceful, in a way. Dustin moves slowly, like a bear wading through honey, and his soft speech makes it hard to take him seriously. As weird and reeking as he is, though, Lisa feels a bud of fondness growing. It's kind of nice to be around a friendly, nonthreatening stranger. It makes her feel a little less alone, makes the woods less scary and insurmountable.

"Hey," she says, "You never told me what you're doing out here. Are you camping?"

"…Yeah." He looks away. Clearly, he doesn't want to talk about it.

"Why?" She insists.

Dustin takes a deep breath. "Sometimes, I just want to get away. F-for my own good."

"I completely understand." Lisa nods sagely. "You need to get out, right? Cause it's better to be alone than in a bad situation."

"Yeah, that's it." He relaxes. "B-but, it's not that the orphanage is all bad. It's just that…well, people can be mean, and…I'd like to stay — I'd rather be with other people than alone — but, I mean, I have to go when things get...overwhelming."

A few feet away from the fire, there's a ratty, red sleeping roll, as well as a battered backpack stuffed to the brim with supplies. It reminds Lisa of the bag she brought when she ran away from Grandpa's house. Dustin looks like he's done this a few times before, and he tells her he has. He lives on the other side of the woods, where there's a huge, red-brick orphanage stuffed to the brim with kids who have nowhere else to go.

In his soft voice, he speaks of terrible things: kids attacking one another, overworked counselors, and countless abuses gone unpunished. Dustin's been there so long, he can barely remember his parents' faces. They were cops, he said: One died in the line of duty, and the other… Dustin doesn't tell her exactly what happened, but she recognizes the long pause and pained look: It's the same expression Grandpa has when he talks about grandma, the same look Dad has when he talks about mom. Intertwining tragedies connect them, and Lisa puts her hand on his. "I'm sorry," she says, and he turns his wet eyes away.

"I-It's not all bad," Dustin says finally, sniffling. "I made some good friends, but they got adopted. And I stayed behind. Th-the older I get, the less likely I'll ever leave."

"But you're gone now." Lisa looks around the worn campsite. "You leave often, right?"

Dustin shrugs. "O-often enough…it's not easy, b-but sometimes, when I'm alone, I can clear my head. It helps me be more grateful when… I'm taken back."

"They really bring you back?" Lisa gasps. "Why can't they just let you be?"

"Well, t-technically, they're in charge of me...so they have to. B-but it's not that bad," he adds quickly. "They're so busy, it always takes them a long time to notice I'm m-missing. One time I got so hungry I went back on my own."

"Yeah." Lisa drops her head onto her knees, hugging her legs close. "The hunger is the worst part. I think if I didn't find you, I might have starved out here. Last time I ran away, I was so hungry I ate chocolate malt balls out of the trash."

"Y'know, sometimes, if you're l-lucky, people will give you food," Dustin adds, brightening up. "I once met a man who took me out to lunch. W-we went to a diner, and he got me the biggest burger I've ever had. It had three patties!" He laughs at the memory, wiping his eyes. "A-and he even got me a big soda and fries. It was so fun. I kept thinking, 'This is what it's like to have a dad.'"

"What happened?"

"I told him everything," Dustin says. "A-about the orphanage, my parents…he really seemed to care. He was so nice, I hoped he would a-adopt me. When we were done, he t-told me to keep my chin up. And I have — or I've tried to. But he left. For the longest time, I kept h-hoping he would come back. Whenever people came to the orphanage, I'd run up looking for him. But he never came."

Lisa patted his huge back with her small hand. "I'm sorry. Have you ever gotten close? To being adopted, I mean."

His long, ruddy face falls. "No. And, I asked them, I said, 'I-I don't need a big family. I'd be happy with a small one. I j-just want a mom, or a dad. Just a parent to look after me and — and to care.' But they couldn't f-find anybody who wanted me."

Dustin wipes his wet nose, and Lisa tries to comfort him. "I know what you mean, wanting someone who wants you. I grew up with my Grandpa, and my mom died when I was young. Dad went to prison when I was almost two years old, but I always wanted to know him. Brad said he was mean, but how could I believe that? Maybe dad was mean to him, but maybe he'd nice to me. I kept thinking, 'Maybe he changed. It's been eight years. People change all the time.'" She sighs. "All I could think of was, if I had a dad, I would have someone who cared about me, you know? Someone who wanted me. Grandpa didn't want me — he was stuck with me when dad went away. He didn't want to raise us, but he had to. Brad was a good kid, so he liked him. But Grandpa never liked me."

She has no clue why she's saying these things, but Dustin's tender gaze loosens her tongue. "So, when I heard my dad was out of prison, I begged to go see him. Everyone was telling me no, but I just didn't get it! He was my dad — didn't I deserve to see him? I was so angry, all I did was scream at Grandpa until he gave in." Her voice fades away, suddenly tight, and she stops speaking.

Dustin looks at her closely. "But you got to see him. And then—"

"At then I found out I was an idiot who should have listened to them." Lisa's sharp is sharp, like a knife on a chalkboard.

"Lisa, when you say your dad is a monster…what did he do to you?"

She looks at him: big, dopey, over trusting, alone in the wild and friendless. He's no threat, and even if he flapped his mouth, who would he tell? No one in the orphanage talks to him, and he's so desperate for company, he let her — a dirty, ghostly girl who previously hit him — sit down and share his food. Maybe it's the rush of nutrients after days of starving, or her own loneliness, but truth pours from her lips like an unstoppable current of bile. She purges her secrets, tells him everything, can't stop once she starts. Dustin looks sick when she's over; he sways like he's about to faint.

"I…am so…sorry," he whispers, and Lisa doesn't answer him with any words except another stomach growl. Dustin glances at her, back at the empty pan, and then searches through his backpack. "W-want some chocolate?"

He holds the bar out to her, his light blue eyes wide with sympathy, and Lisa takes one look at the candy and bursts out laughing. It's so loud it scares her, and it's unlike any sound she's made before. Hyena screeches rip her throat on their way out, and tears stream down her face. Lisa loses control of her body and falls into the dirt, laughing hysterically. After hearing her whole life's story, all Dusty could do for comfort was offer a chocolate bar. It's hilarious and terrible, and she wheezes until there's dirt in her mouth. She knows he's just trying to be nice, but it seems so silly and bizarre that two children would even be in this position — and that's what they are, children , even though they're on the edge of adolescence, even though they're both homeless and escaping troubles they're far too young to deal with — she can't help but laugh into the night.

Why the hell did she tell him anything? Why couldn't she keep her big mouth shut? Of course this was too big a secret to share. How would a young kid even know how to respond, except to offer a chocolate bar? "I guess the snake sleeps when you're around," she whispers hoarsely, more to herself than to him. Although her body has quieted, emptied of all its laughter till she's a twitching husk on the ground, her mind smiles at the strangeness of the situation. If she didn't laugh, what would be the alternative?

"What does that mean?" Dustin is leaning over her, hand outstretched like he wants to help but is too afraid to touch her. His eyes are like two blue disks spinning in fear, and she thinks that if he weren't a human, he'd probably be a hamster. She imagines him as a beefy rodent running on a wheel and smirks.

"Never mind." She takes his outstretched hand and settles back on the log. Dustin's eyes bore into her.

"Hey, um…Don't take this the wrong way, b-but… are you, by any chance, on drugs?"

Lisa scoffs. "No."

"…Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure! If I were high, I'm pretty sure I'd know it!"

"A-actually, you might not," he says quietly. "I've heard drugs can change your m-mind…make you forget reality."

Frustration needles Lisa's brain. "Dustin. I'm not high. I've never even seen a drug."

"You've never taken p-pills?"

"No!"

"Not even for headaches?"

"Well, yeah, but those don't count."

"Technically, they do. Pharmacies are d-drug stores, you know?"

Lisa slaps her forehead. "I don't mean those types of drugs. I'm talking about the bad drugs, the illicit stuff you seem to think I'm on!"

"Oh. Right." Dustin leans back, his light eyes darting from her face to the starry sky. "I believe you, b-but, just so you know…I wouldn't blame you for wanting to e-escape reality."

"I don't!" She huffs and wipes some of the dirt from her matted, black hair. She feels like a disgusting animal. Maybe she is.

"No one would blame you," Dustin goes on. "No one could blame you. You should tell the p-police. They would put him in jail."

Lisa shakes her head, hard. "I already left. I ran away, and I'm never going back. Unless my dad has a search party out for me, he'll never see me again."

"Y-you think he would have a search party out?" Dustin's big, blue eyes trail around them, examining the shadowy trees beneath the blanket of stars. Above them, the moon is a glowing sickle.

Lisa shrugs. "I dunno," she starts to say, but the words are engulfed by an enormous yawn.

"Y-you can stay here, if you like," Dustin says. "My sleeping bag is small, b-but we could take shifts. That way, we can sleep without w-worrying, since we'd be watching out for each other."

"Really?" Lisa's heart leaps at the opportunity to sleep on something soft, instead of hard dirt. She doesn't give him a second to rescind the offer: she worms into the warm, thick sleeping bag, sighing in relief. Although it reeks of body odor, it feels comfier than a king's bed, and she starts to feel the sandman pulling her eyes shut. "Thanks so much. Will you wake me up when it's my turn to stand guard?"

"Y-yeah," Dustin says. He watches as she settles in, nesting her hands against her head as a makeshift pillow. "Lisa, you should really tell someone about your dad."

"I told you." She frowns.

"I mean, someone who can help, like a t-teacher, or an adult, or—"

"Good night, Dustin."

"Hey, wait!" Whatever he says is drowned out by the warm embrace of sleep.


	17. Lisa VI

Shades of pastel yellow and salmon pink paint the sky in beautiful strokes as the sun rises. Lisa cracks her eyes open and stares at the morning's majesty, drinking in the crisp morning smells of grass and wet earth.

The only bad part is the heavy weight on her stomach. Dustin fell asleep in the middle of his shift, forgetting to wake her. His fluffy, blond head rests atop her sleeping bag, and he's curled up towards the long-dead fire. When she wiggles away, he wakes up with a sheepish apology.

"That's all right." He looks so funny she can't help but smile.

They decide to stick together, simply because both want company after their respective solitudes. Dustin also seems eager to share his knowledge, urging her to check out some of his favorite haunts. Despite Lisa's reticence about going in public, Dustin tries to persuade her to go dumpster diving with him. She lets him believe his words have her convinced, but it's really the ache in her stomach.

"We'll go the long way a-around so people don't see us," Dustin says. He leads her through the woods in companionable silence until they reach a Wally's Restaurant with a large dumpster in the back. Although the smell of garbage is overwhelmingly foul, Lisa finds an unfinished burger and slams it down her throat. The greasy meat and processed cheese feels heaven-sent. Dustin finds a large batch of fries that were thrown out the night before, and they eat until their stomachs are full, even though they have to pull out hairs and coffee grinds.

"Hey, look at this!" Lisa's hands dig through a sticky, grey mess of garbage to fish out a big, green apron. It's got an enormous coffee stain down the front, but there aren't any holes and it doesn't smell obscene, so she throws it out and pretends to flip patties. "Hi, welcome to Wally's! How are you doing today, sir? Oh, that's fantastic! May I take your order?"

"I-I wouldn't wear that, if I were you," Dustin says, hiding a smile. "It might make you stand out."

"Yeah, I guess you're right." Lisa drops the apron atop a pile of emptied soda cans and crawls over a mountain of garbage. "Hey, do you know any places we can get clean? I want to wash off the garbage-stink."

"W-well…there's a gym I go to sometimes. One of the workers is r-really nice. She lets me use their showers sometimes." Dustin looks doubtful. "But she might not be working there today."

"Can we try, at least?"

Dustin nods and crawls over the side of the dumpster, when Lisa scrambles after him, she takes his hand as she jumps to the ground. "Thanks!"

They're quiet as they walk towards the town, keeping their heads bent down. Lisa stays close to his side, trying to hide herself from anyone who might be looking their way. Fortunately, Dustin's friend at the gym is working there, and she casts a sympathetic eye towards them when they come in. "M-my friend would like to shower too, i-if that's okay."

"Of course, sweetie."

"Thank you so much." Lisa bows, humbled by the help, and when she's stripped off her dirt-stained clothes and stepped into the steamy shower, she feels like she could float. Everything's perfect until she finds a woman staring at her in the locker room. "Can I help you?"

"You look a lot like the girl who's missing," the woman says, and Lisa flinches.

"Well, as you can tell, I'm not missing." Lisa tries to keep her voice airy, but the woman's eyes are hawk-like, so she dresses quickly and scuttles out to the front office. Dustin is thanking the woman at the counter for her water bottles when Lisa tugs at his shirt sleeve and whispers, "We gotta go."

"Wh-why? Your hair isn't even dry yet."

"A woman spotted me. She's gonna call my dad, I just know it!"

"Who sp-spotted you?"

"Someone in the locker room. She knows I'm missing!"

"Excuse me." The woman at the front desk cuts in. "What's this about missing? Have you run away from home?" Now she's looking too closely at Lisa.

"No, not at all! Come on, Dustin!"

Reluctantly, he follows her out. Right when they're about to step through the door, a man steps in front of them and says: "Hey, aren't you that girl who was on the news this morning?"

Lisa doesn't stand around; she sprints past him and out the gym door. Dustin's big feet slap on the pavement behind her, but she doesn't respond to his calls. She runs until the woods are in her sight, and then she leaps into their shadowy safety, where no one can find her or drag her back to dad, kicking and screaming.

"L-Lisa! There you are!" Dustin finds her clutching a tree, and his blue eyes cloud in worry. "I almost lost you. Why did you r-run?"

"Because I didn't want them to take me back!" She yells, and he draws back. "I'm sorry. I'm just upset."

Dustin nods, takes a step forward. "L-listen…maybe it's not bad that they recognized you. They could p-probably help you."

"Yeah, help me towards my death!" Lisa snaps. "They would just turn me in, and I'd get thrown back into the lion's den. There's no place for me out there, and you know it!"

Dustin shakes his head. "I know there are p-people out there who can help you, Lisa. You need to tell someone about your dad."

She glares. "I'm not talking about this."

"I'm serious!" Dustin insists. "If you f-file a police report, you can stop your dad."

"Oh yeah?" Lisa's arms fall from the rough bark, and she steps forward. Leaves crunch beneath her feet. "What if the police don't trust me? What if they think I'm lying?"

"They won't think you're lying at all!" Dustin looks offended by the notion.

"How do you know?"

"B-because…" He shrinks under her angry gaze, fiddling with his rugged hands. "Cops are the g-good guys."

Lisa scoffs. "There's no such thing as 'good guys.' No one group can be all good. There's always gonna be a few bad apples, and with my luck, I'd get a cop who thinks I either made it up for attention, or worse, that I wanted it."

Dustin gasps. "H-how could anyone possibly think that you wanted that ?"

"Dad always tells me I do." Lisa kicks a rock and skulks away. Dustin's heavy footsteps fall in line with her own. "He can't be the only one in the world with that…mindset. He's not that special. Maybe other people think that, too. Maybe I'll have the misfortune of speaking to them." She sighs. "Or, to be fair, maybe I won't. But they might say I'm making it up to cause trouble. It's not worth the risk. I'm not going to be humiliated!"

When Dustin shakes his head, damp blonde hair hits his long face. "I j-just don't see how anyone could think you would ever m-make up something so serious. How could they think you'd l-l-lie?"

He struggles to speak, shock and revulsion making him pale with sympathy. Lisa smiles at him, but it's bitter and doesn't touch her eyes. "Dustin, I grew up with a man who thought I was a bad apple. He once told me I have a mean streak a mile along, and he was always getting on my case, calling me lying and manipulative. Listen, when it comes to me, people jump to the worst conclusion."

"I didn't!" Dustin says in earnest. "I believe you. A-and I'm sure others would, too!"

"Well, thanks," Lisa sighs. "If there were more people like you and less like my Grandpa, the world would be a better place."

Nervousness flashes across Dustin's face. "Does your Grandpa really blame you? That's…that's just sick."

"He told me my dad can do whatever he wants to me."

"Including… that? H-h-he explicitly…s-supports that?"

Lisa frowns. "I told him my dad was hurting me. My grandpa told me to shut up and endure it."

Dustin bites his lips. "S-s-so…he may not know what's going on?"

"I think he does know," Lisa says, but then she pauses. Most of her hatred for Grandpa stemmed from the assumption that he knew what was happening but cared so little for her that he sent her back, year after year.

Dustin picks up on her hesitation. "Y-you should tell him, just to be sure!"

"Don't tell me what to do!" Lisa snaps. "I just told you my Grandpa thinks I'm a bad person! I know him, and I know if I said anything, he'd throw it back in my face!"

"That's not fair!" Dustin cries out, his voice rising, and Lisa's rises to shout him out.

"Fair? You don't know anything about fair! You know what's unfair? Losing your mom and having a monster for a dad! I know more about what's fair and not fair than you ever could!"

Hurt flashes across Dustin's long face, but he stands his ground. "You're wrong," he says. "I've lived through my own un-unfairness. I-I don't have anyone who cares about me, who could h-help me with my problems…they're all gone… but you do, a-and you don't even give him a chance!"

If Lisa sticks around, she's going to smack him again. Red creeps at the edge of her vision, and she imagines his face speckled with violet bruises. But he's her friend, and as much as she wants to hurt him, she won't. Instead, she turns on her heel and stalks away towards an enormous tree. She throws her body weight into a high kick, slamming her shin against its rough bark. Her whole leg screams in pain, but she draws back and kicks it again. It hurts like hell, and she hisses in pain and falls to the dirt floor, gripping her throbbing shin.

Dustin watches from a few feet away, but he doesn't dare approach until she roughly calls him over and asks for her help. Without speaking, he wraps her arm over his shoulders and helps guide her hobbling steps.

* * *

They're discovered less than an hour later. Lisa could slap and berate herself for screaming so loudly they were found out, but she and Dustin don't have time to do anything but run.

"She's over here!" A voice calls in the distance.

Far behind her running feet, people are stumbling upon their campsite and rifling through their things. They both grabbed their backpacks at the first sign of people, but Dustin left his sleeping roll, and Lisa prays it won't get taken. Anything would be better than sleeping on cold, hard dirt. Dustin helps her leave, but the voices get louder and louder.

"I think we'll have to hide," Lisa says, and as luck would have it, there's a cluster of fallen branches she could slip behind. She's so small, the bark would hide her, but there's not enough room for Dustin.

"I-I can try to distract them," Dustin offers.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah." He looks nervous, but before she can say anything, he slips away into the brush, and the woods go silent.

Leaves frame Lisa's vision as her tall friend hurries away. The colorful blur of flaxen hair and muddy clothes grows smaller and smaller until he's no more than a blip in the distance. Although Lisa hears nothing but her own hummingbird heartbeat, she doesn't dare move. Cracking branches or crunching leaves could give her away, so she waits, frozen, until her limbs hiss in agony.

It feels like eternity before Dustin's welcome figure emerges from the trees — alone. Lisa cries in relief, pushing branches out of her way to scramble over. "What happened?"

"I told them you and I were j-just camping," he says. "It-it took a lot of convincing, but I managed to talk them down. They were j-just a few people who saw us at the gum. I think…p-policemen would have been more persistent."

"You must have a silver tongue if you got them to leave." The day's anxiety and stress melts off her thin frame, leaving elation in its wake.

"G-geez. Nobody's e-ever said that…about me." Dustin scratches his neck and chuckles, a warm, happy sound. "Oh! By the way…y-you're my sister now." Lisa pulls away with a quizzical look, which he answers with a rueful smile. "I t-told them you were my sister so they w-wouldn't get suspicious. Also, your name is Dana."

"Why Dana?"

"B-because I couldn't say you were Lisa. I tried to come up with a female version of 'Dustin,' and Dana w-was the only name I could think of."

Lisa snorts. "Well, I'll take it. Better than 'Dustina,' anyway."

They laugh on their way back to their campsite, which was unmolested by the do-gooders. Although things ended well today, they may not be so lucky tomorrow, so they leave in search of a new place to set up shop.

As they speak, Lisa starts thinking of Brad. "Did I ever tell you about my brother?"

"N-no." Dustin's walking ahead of her now, but he turns to meet her eyes. "What's he like?"

"He's the coolest guy I've ever met." Lisa smiles. "He took care of me when I was a baby, and he taught me karate. He always tried to defend me when Grandpa was being too hard on me. Sometimes, when I was sick, he'd sing me folk songs mom used to sing to him. I never met her, so he told me everything about her. He's not a happy person, but he always smiled when he spoke about her."

"She sounds very sweet," Dustin says. "I'm sorry you never got to meet her."

"Me too." Lisa touches her pendant. "This was a gift from her, you know. She got it from her mom, who got it from her mom before her. It came from Italy, and her family brought it with them to America."

"That's amazing." Dustin sighs, his long face forlorn. "I wish I knew stuff like that about my own family."

Lisa hurries to his side. "Well, that's the only thing I know. And I don't know anything about the Armstrong side of the family, except that we made our own fighting style."

His light blue eyes boggle. "R-really? That's amazing!"

"That's what everyone says." Lisa smirks and flips her short hair. Truthfully, most people are unimpressed when she tells them about it — Bernard was the only person who responded with enthusiasm, but Dustin doesn't need to know that. "Brad and my Grandpa taught me from the time I was little how to defend myself. Let me tell you: bad guys and bullies never see my moves coming."

"Are you, l-like, a sort of peacekeeper, then?" Dustin lights up, and Lisa nods so she doesn't disappoint him with the truth. She stops talking after that, looking down at the grass and the flowers they walk through, lost in thought about her family. It's only when Dustin speaks that she lifts her head.

"Your brother…does he live with your dad, too?"

"No, my Grandpa. CPS took us away when we were both very little…he was around my age, and I was just a toddler. Almost two years old, I think. I was sent to live with my dad…after I ran away the first time." She wrinkles her nose, not wanting to think about all the anguish and rage she felt at the time. It's still there, albeit duller from time.

Twenty feet away from a babbling brook, there's a small meadow in the heart of a tall tree cluster. A monarch butterfly floats through the lush clearing, which Lisa takes as a good sign. It reminds her of the butterfly stickers in her room at Grandpa's house. Wings of every color of the rainbow spread against her pale, pink walls. On nights when sleep was elusive, she would follow their graceful arc with her eyes, imagining which colors she'd blend to recreate their delicate bodies on canvas.

Thinking about home makes it harder for Lisa to cope with the coldness of the current night. Instead, she looks around the clearing while Dustin sleeps. While Lisa wishes there was a comfortable pattern she could rest her gaze on, but the world offers nothing except a dark, silent nothingness. As her eyelids grow heavy and hunger gnaws at her insides, Lisa prods the fire and feeds it new twigs, watching the gorgeous colors battle against the world's overwhelming darkness. The fire throws dancing lights over Dustin's face, and Lisa wonders why his dreams put a smile on his face. She's not sure how much time has passed, but when she almost falls over out of sleepiness, she figures it's time to nudge her friend awake. Dustin just groans and turns over. It's only when she grips him with both hands and shakes him with all her might that his blue eyes finally open and he yawns deeply. "Wh-wh-why'd you wake me?"

"Good morning, sunshine. My shift has ended, and now it's your turn to stand guard!"

Dusty groans in agony as he leaves the sleeping roll's warmth, while Lisa wiggles in and smiles in her warm new cocoon. "Y-you could have given me a little bit longer to sleep, you know," Dustin grumbles.

Lisa tries to apologize, but she falls asleep before the words can travel from her mind to the air. For the first time in forever, she sleeps peacefully, and she wakes in the early morning to the feeling of Dustin's head atop her belly. Once again, he fell asleep on guard duty and curled up to her instead of keeping an eye out.

Lisa would be annoyed if it weren't so sweet. It reminds her of the way Brad used to crawl into bed with her when she was very young, holding her tight so she wouldn't have nightmares. She misses Brad so much it hurts, but the more time she spends with Dustin, the less her heart twists with longing.


	18. Lisa VII

Lisa's hunger is so great she wakes with a line of drool down her chin. On one hand, she's terrified of venturing out and being captured, but on the other hand, she's ravenous enough to take the risk.

"M-maybe you could try on my jacket?" Dustin suggests. "If you pull the f-f-fur hood over your head, it could hide you pretty well. And it's still w-winter, so it's not like you'd stick out…"

"I'll try it." While Dustin's jacket was large on his tall, thick frame, it turns into an enormous cloud when Lisa wears it. The red, puffy jacket is so huge she swims in its stinky fabric, but it keeps her toasty in the chill, morning air, so she's cheerful when she and Dustin head over to the food bank.

She's never been there before, but it's a Sunday, so there are lots of volunteers out. They pick up a modest amount of food and hygiene products, and all the while Lisa keeps her head down, bowing so people aren't suspicious. Instead, they interpret her behavior as humble and apologetic, and one of the volunteers gently tells her there's nothing to be ashamed of and that she's welcome any time. "Thank you," Lisa whispers to the ground, not meeting the person's eyes but hoping they can tell how touched she is.

After that, Dustin leads her to a nearby church. It's a big, white building with long, thin windows and a large golden cross that looks grand against the clouds, but it reminds Lisa of the crosses in her dad's house, so she doesn't look too long. Her mother and grandmother were both deeply religious, according to what she's heard, so she wonders if either one of them ever stepped into this church. She hopes so; knowing she's somewhere they've walked through makes her feel less afraid of the golden cross in the sky.

"O-on Sunday, some of the v-volunteers here will offer some free stuff," Dustin tells her. "They're always really nice. Once they even i-invited me into service. It was warm, b-but…really loud."

Through the windows, rows of people are standing and holding their hands to the sky as a band on stage plays music. Lisa can't hear the words from outside, but she can hear the faint tendrils of sound through the windows. Even though they don't attend service, volunteers share doughnuts and hot chocolate with them, and in Lisa's ravenous mouth, the food lasts as long as a snowflake on the sun. "I wish I knew you when I ran away the first time," Lisa says. "I could have used this stuff when I was 100 miles away."

"Were you really…that f-f-far away?" Dustin's light blue eyes go wide. "I've never even been outside this city…"

Lisa lights up; here's her chance to shine with her knowledge. "Of course I was! I traveled all throughout Olathe, sleeping in parks, and scouting out all the coolest libraries."

His forehead wrinkles. "Why libraries?"

"Because they're the best place to kill time. Nobody bothers you there, and you can read all day for free. It's really fun." Unfortunately, from her previous three summers in this town, she knows there's no library nearby. They'd have to take the bus to the next town over. Suddenly emboldened, Lisa asks one of the nearby volunteers for a few dollars. "We'd like to go to the next town over to see the library!" The man, who doesn't seem to recognize her as a missing girl, coos over how nice it is to see young kids spending their time reading instead of fooling around on the streets. Five dollars disappear into Lisa's pocket, and she thanks him as sweetly as she can.

"A-are you sure?" Dustin stammers as they approach Lisa's old bus stop. "I-I've never even been on a bus before…"

"Then it's good you've got me with you for your first time." Lisa beams at him. "Don't worry; we'll only be there for an hour or so. I just want to show you how cool it can be. There are books of every genre, and the one in the next town even has a big aquarium and a small theatre that puts on plays for the really little kids." She babbles on as they walk, and when they step on the bus, Lisa's sure to cover her face with Dustin's coat. Despite his nervousness — which he expresses by gripping her arm, as if her tiny body could possibly protect him — Dustin seems interested, and he perks up when they reach the next town over.

This is a library she's been to a few times before. It's a big building, tall and grey with three stories, every inch stacked with enormous books. There's a lush park behind the library and a gushing water fountain that makes Dustin's eyes pop. "A w-w-wishing well!" He exclaims, and although he's completely wrong, Lisa bites her tongue and lets him be happy. "If only I had a c-coin."

"What would you wish for?" Lisa asks.

He pauses and peers up at the sky. "A family."

She had been expecting him to say something more light-hearted, but his intensity is startling. When he gets a faraway look in his eyes, she gently tugs him towards the sliding glass doors to bring him down to Earth. However, he's much stronger than her, and when he resists, she can't make him budge an inch further. "Dustin…?"

"Th-the last time I made a wish in a fountain, I w-was with my mom." His gaze is glued to the deep blue water in the well, lost to a distant memory. "That was after…my dad died. A bad guy shot him." He sniffles. "She s-said, if we made wishes in the fountain, maybe we'd w-wake up and it would all be a dream. But it wasn't. It was real…"

Lisa hopes he doesn't cry and attract attention. "Dustin, I'm here," she whispers, patting his back. She struggles to say the right words to calm him down. "You're here. You're okay." He starts crying anyway, and she starts sweating with nervousness; there are eyes on them. "Dustin…I…you do have a family."

His wide, wet eyes are full of confusion. "N-n-no I don't."

"You have me!" Lisa gestures at herself. "I'm here with you." Dustin blinks rapidly; a few tears fly from his face towards her. "Didn't you tell those people I was your sister? Well, I — I want to be your sister!" Her cheeks heat up when she realizes she's speaking truthfully. "Isn't family all about standing by one another? We're standing by each other, aren't we?"

Realization dawns in his eyes. "Yeah," he whispers, his voice hoarse from self-restraint. Lisa can tell he's trying hard not to cry loudly, so she leans over and rubs circles in his back. She almost wants to hug him, but she's not sure if that would be crossing a line. With Bernard, she could tell he wanted a hug and would be happy with one, but Dustin's harder to read. He's quiet for a long moment before taking a deep, shuddering breath. "Wh-why don't you go on ahead?" He rasps. "I…I need to relax."

She'd love nothing more than to bolt away from the emotional display, but she wants to make sure she's being as supportive as possible. "Are you sure?"

He nods, and she heads inside. I hope I said the right thing, she thinks. Never before has she had to worry about supporting a friend, but that's because she's never had any close friends before. Although she's only known Dustin for a few days, she feels like she's known him far longer than that. Maybe surviving together in the wilderness is a quick way to get close to someone, she thinks, smiling sardonically. Who knows? Maybe if I drag Grandpa out for a camping trip, we'll magically bond and he'll pull the stick out of his ass.

Usually, Lisa goes to the kids' section first, but today it's packed with running toddlers and harried parents, and after soothing Dusty, she wants a quieter place, where she can be alone with her thoughts. She wanders over to the fiction section, searching for an eye-catching cover. A few books seem interesting, but they're either too boring or stuffed with ten-dollar words to catch her attention.

A mustard yellow book of poetry is wedged in-between two dry-looking novels, and Lisa grabs it out of curiosity. Someone must have put it there out of laziness since it's obviously in the wrong section. She flips it open and looks through; many of the poems are strange yet interesting, but none impress her until she comes across a poem called "Lady Lazarus." Although she doesn't fully understand it, she senses something dark and painful being expressed. The very last stanza jumps out of the page and settles in her brain:

_Out of the ash_

_I rise with my red hair_

_And I eat men like air._

The mental image consumes Lisa's mind. She imagines her greasy, black hair exploding into flames as she rises into the sky, devouring her dad, Grandpa, the school psychologist, the evil man who tried to kidnap her on Valentine's Day…

"Lisa?"

Dustin's long face stares at her through the bookcase, and she jumps in surprise, dropping the book. He chuckles softly and apologizes, and she huffs and acts like it never happened. Instead of talking about what happened outside, they spend the next hour wandering around the library together. For a while, they're two normal kids, reading graphic novels and laughing over terrible summaries on the back of the books they find. They walk through the park afterward, chatting about light-hearted things and enjoying themselves.

When they come across a large pond, Lisa runs forward towards a flock of birds, feeling powerful and free as they fly away from her red boots. She laughs as they take to the sky, but Dustin frowns. "Wh-why'd you do that?"

"It was fun," she says, but he shakes his head.

"Th-that isn't nice," he says, and Lisa rolls her eyes. Above them, the morning sky has rolled into the early afternoon. Since the day has slipped away so quickly, they decide to head back before it gets dark. As they retrace the dust paths, Lisa wonders how someone who spends so much time living alone could be so gentle. Dustin's tall, thick frame would make him seem intimidating to anyone who doesn't know his personality, but in truth, he's so sensitive he got choked up over a flock of birds—and Lisa's declaration of herself as his family.

She watches him closely out of the corner of his eye. What did he think of her words? Did he take them seriously—or did he assume the worst and take her words for lies? She's so focused that she barely notices heavy footsteps behind her until she's pushed forward and slammed into the dirt. Sharp knees grind into her back as she realizes a laughing boy is hitting her in the head. It's a sneak attack that immediately infuriates her, both because it was completely unwarranted, and also because his cowardice is pathetic. With a roaring scream, she writhes beneath his heavy weight, twisting into the dirt to dislodge him. The boy just laughs at that, grabbing a fistful of her hair and rubbing her face into the dirt.

Beside her, Dusty shouts as footsteps crowd around him. Lisa hears the smack of hands against skin and realizes he's being assaulted by two boys. Finally, her beastly writhing throws off the boy's balance, so she jumps to her feet and lunges towards him like a cobra. With a loud scream, she digs her nails as deep as she can into his chubby cheeks and drags them down, drawing rivulets of crimson blood down his face. They wrestle in the ground in pointless violence: the boy swings his fists every which way, slamming new bruises into every inch of skin he can reach, but Lisa jumps to her feet again and throws hard kicks into his stomach and head. When he throws his forearms over his head, she slams him in the crotch and stomach until he's howling in pain.

There's a sharpness in her skull: Another boy has yanked her hood back and has a fistful of her hair, but she twists her body — ignoring her hair being ripped away — and tackles him. As he's falling, she throws a lighting-quick fist straight into his face. Before he or the other boy can catch their bearings, she runs around them and darts down the dirt path, shouting over her shoulder: "Dusty! Come on!"

Behind her, Dustin is crouched on the ground, covering his head as the third boy assails him with kicks and punches. Instead of fighting back, he's taking it, like he's frozen. Like he's a stupid statue instead of a flesh-and-blood human being. Lisa sees red. She screams at the top of her lungs and runs back as fast as she can, grabbing the back of his jacket and jerking him away. Forearms dart beneath her armpits and throw her arms up, exposing her torso to a barrage of punches from the other two boys. "Dustin! Help me!" She screams. He watches her, motionless, until the boy who'd been beating him slams a fist straight into her eye socket, and she howls.

"H-hey, stop it!" He jumps up, pulling the boy back. The boy twists around to punch Dustin, but Lisa's friend grabs the fist and looks apologetic. "P-p-please, leave us alone!"

The third boy throws a kick into Dustin's side, and he crumples. Lisa screams like she's a boiling lobster, and this time, Dustin doesn't stay down; he comes up again, blocking as many blows as he can, and then throws a quick, decisive punch into one of the boys' throats. He punches the other boy as well before kicking them down. His movements are fast and fluid as a burst of wind; the strong, decisive blows send the boys crumbling like a Jenga tower. The whole time he takes them down, his long face is twisted in nervousness, and he whispers apologies.

The hands entrapping Lisa finally loosen, and one of the boys yells for a retreat. Lisa kicks him in the tailbone as hard as she can, and he yelps. One of the boys jumps up from the ground and leaves, but the other is slower: that one gets a furious fist to the head before he escapes.

"Fuck you!" Lisa yells after them, her voice loud enough to reach the furthest edge of the park. "Fuck you evil bastards!"

"L-Lisa! Calm down!" Dustin's face is swollen and purple with bruises. He looks like hell, but she must look even worse because his expression goes taut with fear when he sees her.

"How can I calm down?" She screams. "They attacked us for no reason! We didn't do anything to them and they beat us! They hurt us just for fun! They're scum!"

"Lisa!" Now he looks even more afraid. _Good,_ Lisa thinks. _Fuck his pitying eyes._ But he continues: "L-listen! That…that happens sometimes. P-people just wanna prove they're strong, so they-they attack the b-biggest guy they can find. It's all my fault. I'm s-so sorry you were with me, and you got hurt because of me."

"It's not your fault!" Lisa snaps, but Dustin stands back, shaking his head. His blue eyes are watery again, and Lisa's heart burns with anger: she wishes those cowardly bastards didn't run away, because she wants to beat them bloody for hurting her friend's feelings. "Dusty, listen, it's not your fault. " She steps closer and grabs his cheeks, forcing him to look at her. "I don't blame you and you shouldn't blame yourself either. It's all on them, do you understand?"

He nods, but his eyes flicker away. Red burns at the edge of Lisa's vision. "Why the hell did you just let them hit you? " She demands. "You — you were just sitting there, letting yourself get hurt! Why did you do that?"

"I-I didn't want to hurt them."

Lisa wants to slap her forehead. "They deserved it! They hurt you first!"

"They didn't deserve it." Dustin's wringing his hands, now. He steps back, afraid of her anger. "They-they're probably h-hurting inside, which is why they attacked us. H-h-hurt people hurt people…no one deserves to be hurt."

"Oh, really?" Poison drips from Lisa's voice. "So my dad doesn't deserve to be hurt? Even though he's constantly hurting me?"

Dustin's eyes go wide. "I-I…Lisa…"

She steps forward, pointing her aching finger in his face. "Well?" When he says nothing, she yells in his face: "Answer me!"

Dustin's hands fly to his face, and for a sobering moment, Lisa's afraid she's made him cry. Her anger turns to guilt, but when Dustin lowers his hands, his face is dry. "I-I think your father needs to be turned in. He d-d-deserves to go to prison."

Lisa scoffs. "He's been to prison before. He got out early for good behavior." She shakes her head, but the movement sends a jolt of pain through her skull. "Prison's too good for him, no matter how much he cries about how bad it was. He deserves a slow and painful death."

"H-he needs to be reported to the cops." Dustin can't meet her eyes.

Lisa takes a deep breath. She's so angry she could pound sand, but at the same time, she's conscious of how much her rage is unnerving Dustin. There's nothing she wants to do more than chase down the worthless pieces of shit who ambushed them, but Dustin is more important than revenge. She grabs his large, pale hands in her own and stares at him until he meets her eyes. Dustin swallows hard and looks at her, blinking tears from eyes. "Come on, Dusty," Lisa says. "Let's go home."

* * *

It feels like forever before they're back at their camp. It's too early for the sleeping roll, but there's no place to sleep beside the grass, so Lisa throws her aching body against the soft green expanse. Dustin steps through the thicket, hauling a huge hunk of wood she couldn't move an inch. "Y-you can sit here, if you like." He arranges the log for her to sit on, and she's shocked that he's not flinching in pain. Hurt ripples through her own bruised flesh when she hits down on the rough rear. Still, though, it's nice to rest her legs after a long day.

To Dustin, though, the day's far from over. "We're…going to n-need some food for tonight. I know where I can g-get some cans."

"But…we just got some cans of food earlier today," Lisa says.

Blue eyes dart away from her. "We-we, um, we'll need some more for t-tomorrow," he says with a cracking voice.

"Okay…?"

He rises to leave, but when Lisa moves to follow, he holds a hand out to stop her. "I-I think it might be best if you stayed back…after what happened earlier."

As much as she wants to stay by his side, he's got a point. Everything aches from the earlier beatdown, so she wouldn't be able to escape if someone spotted her. "I get it, but what if someone finds me out here?"

"They sh-shouldn't…but maybe you can find a hiding spot?"

"And hide there the whole time?" Lisa blinks. "How long will you be gone?"

Dustin can't meet her eyes. "I-I-I'm not sure."

"Do you have any weapons?"

He looks shocked. "Why do you ask?"

"In case I have to defend myself." She follows his distressed gaze, which is glued to his ratted red backpack. "Is it in there?"

"You sh-shouldn't feel unsafe at all!" Dustin cries. "We m-moved over here. We're well out of the way."

"I know…but what if?" She widens her turquoise eyes in a show of fear. "We just got jumped earlier today. What if someone else comes here? I'm all busted up. I won't be able to defend myself."

"W-well…I guess you could use my knife…but not to hurt anybody! I won't l-let you use it on anyone, okay? Just…hold it while I'm gone if it m-makes you feel safe."

"Thank you, Dusty." She means it; the words are as real as the knife in her palm. Despite the unease that radiates from every fiber of Dustin's being, he nods.

It's quiet when he's gone. Only the trees keep her company, and they're immobile and silent, save for the rare caress of wind that sends green leaves fluttering down to earth. Lisa flicks open the knife, admiring the sharp blade that gleams from the sun. Why did I even ask for this? She wonders. _Will a cheesy little pocket knife really keep me safe?_

She can't understand why those boys attacked them. Dustin says it was to prove they were strong by beating up on the biggest guy they saw—but then, why did they hurt her, too? Wouldn't the type of chauvinistic assholes who want to prove themselves avoid hurting a girl? If they wanted to prove they could take down the biggest guy they saw, why beat up the girl with him?

The random violence is unnerving. When dad hurt her, he always had a reason to. He was angry with her; he wanted something from her. What did those boys want? Why her?

_Am I just a magnet for bad people?_ Lisa turns the knife in her hand, and her wrists tingle. _Can people just sense that they can hurt me? If that's true... and Dustin's with me... are they going to hurt him, too?_

She shakes her head roughly, trying to dislodge the feelings of self-hatred. With a deep sigh, she leans back in her seat, which exposes the pendant round her neck to a bold ray of sunshine. It glimmers like a diamond beneath the light, throwing bright beams into her achy eyes. Wincing, Lisa lifts the black cord from her neck, holding her mother's pendant in tiny hands.

Her mind returns to that horrifying daydream of her mother with Marty's face. It made her sick, thinking of how much her father had taken away. Her mother deserved to be remembered for who she was as a person, but all Lisa knows about her is that she cherished this trinket from another country. Lisa can't recall a hint of her mother's features, but she would crack open her own skull if it meant she'd find a memory of her mother amidst the splattered brains.

But that was impossible. Emily Armstrong's face had been scrubbed away, and in its place, an ugly scribble of a monster emerged. Suddenly, Lisa can't bear to face the pendant; it makes her think of graves and misery and an empty bottle of pills. She shoves it into her pocket—only to draw back a bloody hand.

Lisa's razors are still with her. Somehow, she had forgotten their presence. Now, they look misplaced in her hands, a shadow of a threat. Yesterday, she would have used them in a heartbeat; now, she isn't so sure.

Across the creek where Lisa washes her fingers, a rabbit hops over lush grass. Blood drifts down the lazy current as the little animal sips crisp water. If it were closer, Lisa could take Dustin's knife and carve it into rabbit strew. Maybe it's for the best that its soft, brown body scampers away: Dustin surely would sob at the sight of a butchered bunny. The last thing Lisa wants is to make him cry. She likes him—which means she's now afraid to lose him.

Nightfall wraps the world in obsidian robes by the time Dustin returns. His huge shadow overtakes the light from Lisa's humble fire, which she'd lit with a match from his backpack. "Where were you?"

Dustin won't return her smile. He sits down wearily, like a man thrice his age. Worry is carved into his long features. "What's wrong?" Lisa asks, but he shakes his head. "Obviously, something happened."

"I'm fine, all right?" It's the closest he's ever come to snapping, so Lisa lets it go. She's got something better to talk about.

"I have a present for you." Dustin's sad gaze flickers up to meet her impish grin. "Since we're brother and sister now, I wanted to make it official."

"H-how?"

Lisa stands before him with both hands behind her back. "If you wear an important family heirloom, you join that family in spirit." She holds out her mother's pendant. "I want you to have this, so you know how serious I am."

"Lisa…" Dustin's voice breaks with emotion, and his ice-blue eyes brim with unshed tears. "You can't p-p-possibly…"

"Kneel," Lisa says. "I want to knight you like I'm the Queen of England."

She grins when he shuffles into position. A light, thin branch taps him on both shoulders, and pride bursts from every pore upon Dustin's long, smiling face. The golden pendant glimmers in the flickering firelight as Lisa places it around Dustin's neck. "I hereby declare you an honorary member of my family. Rise, Dustin Armstrong!"

Dustin envelops her in the tightest hug she's ever known. It's warm, safe, and sincere; she hugs him back in the strongest hold she can muster. He babbles about how he doesn't deserve it, and she tells him that's bullshit. They embrace for a long time, lost in the pure, beautiful feeling of forging their own family. Dustin and Lisa Armstrong. Brother and sister._ It sounds good to me,_ Lisa thinks, smiling into his tear-stained hair.


End file.
